


Kinkmeme Stories

by nonelvis



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 24 - Freeform, Battlestar Galactica - Freeform, Einstein and Eddington, F/F, F/M, Harry Potter - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Secret Diary of a Call Girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 59,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonelvis/pseuds/nonelvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collected ficlets from the kinkmeme at <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/sizeofthatthing/">http://community.livejournal.com/sizeofthatthing/</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jenny's Journal

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Jenny sets out to shag all her father's ex-lovers in an attempt to understand him. (Jenny/Jamie, Jenny/Romana I, Jenny/Tegan/Turlough, Jenny/Nine, Jenny/Jack/Rose; warning for brief, accidental incest.)

**Journal — day 97**

I only left Messaline three months ago, but it's amazing how many places I've visited, and how many of those places my father has been, too. It seems like everywhere I go, people talk about him, even if they don't always have nice things to say. Usually those people end up being mean to me, too, but that's okay, because I can always kick them in the nuts. (I know Dad doesn't like me hurting anyone, but it's a hard habit to break.)

I'm beginning to understand what an exciting life Dad must lead, but I don't feel much closer to understanding _him._

I wish I could see him again.  
**Journal — day 103**

Today I met a really cute boy in a skirt. I told him how nice it looked on him, but he got very stroppy with me. "It's nae a skirt, lassie," he said. "It's the manly kilt of a soldier."

A fellow soldier! I got so curious about his special uniform that I pulled part of it up to see what kind of weapons he had. He was very embarrassed — I guess I would have been too if I'd forgotten all my weapons and my knickers — but as long as I was down there, I decided to suck him off. He had such a pretty cock, after all, and he really seemed to enjoy what I was doing. Right when I stuck my finger in his arsehole, he said the only other person who'd done that was his friend, and that I did it just like him.

The compliment made me blush, but I guess I'm just an old-fashioned kind of a girl.  
**Journal — day 126**

I met the most gorgeous woman today — tall, curly brown hair, dark eyes — so regal, almost like a queen. I'm pretty young still, and don't have much experience with girls, but Romana — beautiful name, isn't it? — said she could show me.

She pulled out a strap-on from a pocket that couldn't possibly have held something that massive, and I told her I'd only met one other person with transdimensional pockets before. That's when she told me she was a Time Lord.

Well.

Romana knows my dad, but for some reason, she doesn't want me to see him now. She said something about how I probably wouldn't recognise him, which is silly, right? I'd know him anywhere. And then she said that any relative of dad's might not be good enough for her in bed anyway.

Well.

I flipped her over onto her stomach — thank you, downloadable defence protocols — and fucked her so hard with the strap-on that she came twice before I even had a chance to try this new finger technique a blonde woman in a schoolgirl outfit taught me.

After that, Romana went down on me, licked me clean up one side and down the other, and I don't know if there's some secret Time Lord technique to giving head I still need to learn, but it was like time slowed down to a crawl when she did it; just her tongue lapping at my clit, over and over and over in circles she told me later spelled the words "Doctor's delicious daughter," and after I came so fiercely I nearly passed out, Romana said she thought Dad would be proud of me.

I told her that was a really sweet thing to say, and then I fucked her again.  
**Journal — day 189**

Met an attractive but mouthy brunette, and an equally attractive but mouthy ginger bloke, both of whom say they know Dad. Apparently he left them behind in some pub to wait for him while he did something very daring. ("More like incredibly stupid" is what Tegan called it, but I think she was being sarcastic.) They were both bored out of their wits and didn't seem to like each other very much, but that didn't stop them from dragging me out back and taking turns with me.

Turlough was doing me up the arse while Tegan fucked me with her tiny, nimble fingers, and even through all the incredible noise we were making, I could hear Turlough gasp, "The Doctor's going to be very, very angry when he finds out about this."

"I'm looking forward to telling him all about it," Tegan said, and she smiled this wickedly cute smile, and I came in her hand.  
**Journal — day 213**

I just had the most exhilarating wall sex of my life with this bloke. He had a gorgeous cock and knew exactly how hard I'd want him pounding into me, knew right where to put his fingers between us, and oh, the way his teeth and tongue scraped across my nipples, I'm never going to forget that.

The sad thing is, I don't think I'm ever going to see him again. I admit it, I love the bad boys, and that shaved military haircut, that leather jacket, they drove me wild. But when we tried to talk a little afterwards, and I told him about flying all over the universe to rescue people just like my dad, the Doctor, he got this really funny look on his face, made up some excuse about needing to be somewhere else, and left.

Arsehole.  
**Journal — day 276**

Made two great new friends today, Rose and Jack. And of course, by "friends" I mean "people I fucked."

So, Jack went down on me, while I went down on Rose, and we were one happy little circle of oral fun, and in the middle of everything, Rose said, "I can't believe you're his daughter. Do you have any idea how long it took to get him to shag me? 'Cause you had your hand down my pants in about a minute and a half."

I left a couple fingers inside Rose to hold my place while I looked up at her and said, "If there's one thing I've learned from shagging Dad's exes, it's that he doesn't know what he's got 'til it's gone. So I figure, seize the moment, right?"

"Oh yes," Rose said, and she pushed my head back down so I could draw spirals around her clit with the tip of my tongue. (I'm still trying to master that technique of Romana's.) "Please feel free to seize the moment."  
**Journal — day 276 (later)**

Dad walked in on me and Rose and Jack, which was a little embarrassing, but then he said that since he'd been separated from Rose for so long, he was used to the idea that he couldn't always have her all to himself. He also said that Jack was the friendly, sharing type, but I'd already figured that out.

I told Dad about all my adventures, though maybe not in as much detail as I've written up here, because a girl has to have some secrets, right? And I told him that being with so many of the people he'd been with had helped me understand him a little bit more.

"And what did you learn, Jenny?" he asked, and he stroked my hair down tenderly, just like a dad.

"That you're one really horny bugger," I said.

I don't think that's what he wanted to hear.


	2. Don't Drink the ... oh, Never Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The Doctor's semen is lethal to humans. Except Jack. (Ten/Jack)

"Jack," the Doctor says, trembling as the other man unzips the Doctor's pinstriped trousers, "there's a reason I was never ... intimate with you or Rose."

"I don't care," says Jack, and his lips cover the Doctor's, his tongue diving into the alien's mouth, his teeth tugging on the Doctor's lower lip, and the Doctor moans in desperation.

"No, really. We can't — oh, not even if you put your hand there. Jack, don't put your hand — no, really, don't — okay, well, as long as you're there, maybe just a little faster ..."

The Doctor slips from babbling to actual, full-blown incoherency when Jack replaces the fist around the Doctor's cock with his mouth, suctioning in around the head, swirling his tongue over the tip, pulling the shaft in as far as it will go. The Doctor grasps Jack's head, pushing him roughly along his cock, and a few minutes later, he shoots hard and fast into Jack's mouth.

Jack swallows with a smile, taking in every last drop, licks the Doctor clean, and keels over dead.

He wakes up not long afterwards, gasping and choking, and asks, "What the hell was that?"

"Toxic semen," sighs the Doctor. "I tried to warn you. Brings a whole new meaning to la petite mort, doesn't it?"

"You bet your sweet, sweet arse it does," replies Jack. "Speaking of which, that's not toxic too, is it?"

The Doctor grins, removes his trousers entirely, and flips over on the bed. "Let's find out, shall we?"


	3. Turning Seconds Into Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: pre!Rose (the episode) Jacobi!Master/Rose.

It isn't just the drums, those awful, pounding drums, that have plagued him all his life. There's the girl, too.

The girl is blonde, and young, and neither well-bred nor refined, nothing like the women of Gallifrey. When he dreamt of her before, back when he was that bumbling fool Yana, he assumed she was part of some childhood fantasy of visiting the long-forgotten, legendary human cities. She'd take him by the hand and lead him through cramped grey streets bustling with humans — purposeful, optimistic humans with jobs and families, wholly lacking in the dread and despair that marked the race's final generations.

The girl visited him most often during times of great stress: school exams, the death of his parents, the day he realised the Utopia project was ultimately doomed. Usually they'd walk the streets, having quiet conversations he could never remember upon waking, but the night Yana's fiancée left him, the dream girl kissed him. Just one kiss: sweet, innocent, with a golden spark upon her lips that disappeared as Yana woke, frustrated and aroused.

He wouldn't even be thinking of the girl if Chantho's laser blast hadn't left him staggering. Because here, now, at what should be one of his greatest triumphs, the girl is standing next to him, looking pained.

"You're hurting him, and I haven't even met him yet," she says. "Please. I'll do anything. Just leave him alone."

"Who? That idiot hollering outside the door?" the Master asks.

"I need the Doctor," the girl says. "And he'll need me."

The Master's skin is prickling with regeneration energy. His physical transformation is beginning to take place, but the mental transformation, the moment when his consciousness leaps from dying cells to fresh ones, that can be extended almost indefinitely if he chooses. It's how he's jumped from body to body before.

And now, he can use that skill to despoil something the Doctor holds dear.

"Come here," he whispers, and when the girl complies, he kisses her savagely, his consciousness pressing against her dream-form, pushing her down to the TARDIS console. "All these years I've been waiting for you," he says, and the girl lets him unzip her jeans, shove them to the floor along with her knickers. He fumbles with his button-fly, and the girl takes control, her small hand gliding along his cock with unexpected talent.

He hardens quickly, too quickly for a man his age, but with physical forms abandoned in favour of mental ones, he can do whatever he likes. Including spinning the girl so that she's splayed face-down over the controls, while he rams into her cunt, tight, warm, and wet.

He memorises the details. The pink hoodie the girl is wearing. The way her breaths hitch in time with his thrusts; the yelps she makes when he tweaks her nipples; her panting voice urging him, Come on, come on, do it harder, faster, fuck me, please fuck me; and finally, her long groan as he spills inside her, and as her orgasm twitches around his cock.

It's good. Very good. And he takes full advantage of his ability to turn seconds into hours.

Later, during that year in which he holds the Doctor captive, the Master picks days at random and tells him about the time he fucked Rose, over and over and over again. How she begged for his cock in her mouth, in her cunt, in her arse; how the ghost now haunting them both whored herself out for a foolish old man she hadn't even met yet, and how it didn't make a damned bit of difference.

He smiles at the pain behind the Doctor's eyes, and for a moment, the drums are silent.


	4. Intermezzo Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Donna/Rose, public sex.

"Rose," Donna said a bit shakily, "is it really necessary to put your hand down my knickers every time the Doctor gets up from the table?"

"It's his own fault. If he's going to leave us alone at at a restaurant while he chats up every good-looking girl who walks by, we're going to have to entertain ourselves."

Donna squirmed as Rose's fingers wormed their way past the waistband of her skirt, down into her cotton knickers, and farther still to somewhere particularly nice.

"I'm not _objecting,_" Donna said, gripping the stem of her water glass more tightly. "Just questioning your timing."

Rose's tongue peeked out of the corner of her mouth in that way Donna knew was calculated to convince men Rose was a woman unafraid of providing oral gratification. The fact that this was outrageously, distractingly, mind-blowingly true was beside the point, Donna felt, given how manipulative the gesture was. Not to mention that it always worked on her just as well as it worked on the Doctor.

"He could be gone for quite a while," Rose pointed out, as she started to rub a little more quickly. "Donna, did you just drop your fork on the floor? Don't worry, I'll get it for you." And just like that Rose was under the table, her body completely hidden by the floor-length tablecloth, and Donna nearly shrieked when the tip of Rose's tongue hit the same sensitive spot her fingers had been exploring.

Donna's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, helping her block out the other restaurant patrons. She tried to even out her breathing, no mean trick given how energetically Rose was licking her, and that she could feel an index finger sliding inside her pussy.

When she opened her eyes, she could see the Doctor several tables away, pushing his chair back and clearly beginning to think about getting up.

"Rose," she whispered. "He's coming back. Unless you want to get caught, you'd better —"

Donna lost her train of thought as Rose suddenly sped up. The way the woman could flick her tongue like that was a goddamned miracle, and Donna gripped the edges of her chair, trying not to let more than the very softest moans escape as Rose's lips and fingers bore down upon her.

Across the room, the Doctor was standing up and kissing the hand of the woman at the other table.

Donna hissed, "Rose!" And then "Fuck!" and then, more quietly, looking down at the table so no one could see how red her face was, "Fucking _hell,_ to the left, just like _that,_ oh, God, _stop!_" Her pussy throbbed with her orgasm, and she squeaked as Rose took one more taste, teasing her oversensitized clit.

Rose climbed back up into her seat just as the Doctor turned and headed back to the table. Donna drained her glass of ice water and looked around; none of the other restaurant patrons seemed to have noticed a thing, or if they had, they were being unspeakably British about pretending nothing had happened.

"Lovely to run into the Contessa," the Doctor said. "Haven't seen her since that incident with the Kerlaxian wombat smugglers. Anyway, you two up for dessert?"

Rose dabbed her lips with her napkin. "None for me," she said. "In fact, I think Donna and I are all set."


	5. The Healing Cock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Martha can't stop fantasizing about the Master and the Doctor offers to help her out. (Ten/Martha)

"Thanks for coming over, Doctor," Martha said, opening the door to her flat. "I could really use your help with this problem."

"What is it? Sontarans again? Axons, maybe? Ooh, haven't seen them in ages."

"It's more of a personal issue than something for UNIT." Martha seated herself on the couch next to the Doctor, who was already making himself comfortable there with a copy of _Cosmopolitan_ and Martha's cup of tea. "It's about the Master."

The Doctor fumbled the teacup, barely managing to recover it before it could hit the floor, and placed it back on the side table. "Martha," he said, taking her hand. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I've been having these ... fantasies. And I know they're wrong, really wrong, but I just can't stop thinking about him like that."

"Martha, it's perfectly normal to have sexual fantasies about powerful men, and the Master was really good with his — um, never mind — but look, the important thing to remember is that there's nothing wrong with you for thinking about this."

Martha's eyes were downcast. "I can't tell Tom. And our sex life is going to hell because of this. What am I going to do?"

The Doctor stroked Martha's cheek softly. "If you really want this to go away, I can help. But you should know that the best way to deal with this is head-on: we're going to need to re-enact one of your fantasies."

Martha stood up, grim determination on her face. "Bedroom's this way, Doctor."

* * *

"Look, that's not going to work. I mean, the vibrations are nice, but the laser screwdriver was much thicker."

"I could go get a couple of the older sonic models, stick them all in at once."

"It's just not the same." Martha sighed as the Doctor extracted the sonic. "My fantasy isn't all about the gadgets anyway. Couldn't you at least try to be a little evil?"

"'I'm going to turn your family into servants' evil, or 'I'm going to enslave the entire planet, nuke Japan, and hunt you down like a dog' evil?"

"Definitely the latter," Martha said, squirming happily on the bed. "I know it's wrong, but after that year, I think I find fear of death a real turn-on."

The Doctor coughed and decided not to respond.

"Okay," he finally said, "here goes." He crawled atop Martha, spreading her legs apart with his knee, holding down her arms, and dropping his face inches away from hers.

"Martha Jones," he began, "I've been looking for you everywhere. Do you have any idea how many people I've had to kill to find you? Not nearly enough, though the little children did scream quite prettily."

Martha's eyes widened, her breath quickening, but she said nothing.

"I've been planning this for ages. There are so many ways I can make the Doctor suffer — mutilating his beloved TARDIS, creating the Toclafane, torturing his — Martha, is this working at all for you?"

Martha's left hand shot up and grabbed the Doctor by the hair, pulling him even closer. "Don't you _dare_ stop now," she growled.

"Ah. Where was I? Oh, torturing his companion's family. Yes, so many ways I can make him suffer. But my favourite way to do it is to make him watch while I hurt the people he's closest to." The Doctor dropped his head to Martha's breast, nipping hard at its peak, and Martha cried out.

He released one of Martha's arms and slid his hand slowly down her side, gliding it over her pubic bone, until he reached her cunt, wet and slippery. He inserted his index finger with no resistance, Martha arching her back as he hit a point deep inside her.

"You're a very naughty girl, Martha," he said, and slid the finger in and out while rubbing her clit with his thumb. "Look at the Doctor, crouched and broken in that tent he sleeps in, watching me fuck you on the conference table. And you, you little slut, you're enjoying it. You were just playing hard to get all this time. I blew up an entire island for you, millions of people — if that's not devotion, I don't know what is. While your precious Doctor treats you like a stray puppy who followed him home."

Martha writhed under the Doctor's fingers, moaning in pleasure. He brought his head back up, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "I bet he never even had the balls to do this to you, did he? He made you lie in your bed alone, night after night, let your wandering fingers and cheap electronic toys do his job for him. Well, I'm not him."

The Doctor withdrew his hand from Martha, and she groaned in frustration. He leaned back, fisting his cock with his slickened fingers, then pulled one of Martha's legs over his shoulder and shoved his way into her. She gasped in shock, but grabbed his bended knee for leverage.

_"I'm not him,"_ he repeated, pounding harder into her. "I'm everything he loves and fears. I'm what happens when you're not afraid to take hold of your ambition and make the universe your own. It's how I know how much it hurts him to have something he loves ripped away from him. And it's why I'm going to make you say my name when you come, loud enough that even that deaf, old, worn-out body of his can hear it."

The Doctor reached for Martha's hand and placed it on her crotch. "You know what to do," he said.

Martha moaned as she started to rub her clit, fast and desperate. "Master," she gasped.

The Doctor kept driving into her. "Again," he said. "Louder," and Martha complied.

Martha kept rubbing, and suddenly her face contorted, her cries grew harsher, and her body started to shake. "Oh, oh ... _oh god ... Master!_" she screamed, her cunt throbbing so hard around the Doctor's cock that it only took a few more violent thrusts for him to come himself.

"That's more like it," he said, his breath rough and ragged. He pulled out and flopped beside Martha on the bed.

She turned her head to face him. "Thank you, Doctor," she said. "I think that really helped."

"All cured now?"

"Mmm ... not quite. Same time next week?"

"Same time every week, Miss Jones," the Doctor said, and winked at her.


	6. On the Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mickey/Rose/Jake, heat, a flat tire.

It’s 3am along a dark and deserted beachside road when the Torchwood SUV hits a well-concealed pothole, and the right rear tyre blows out. But Jake’s a skilled driver, never losing control over the vehicle even though they’ve been driving more than a little bit too fast, and he pulls over to the side of the road, cursing.

The cursing continues when Mickey prises off the cover for the spare and discovers the replacement is just as flat as the original. “Guess it’s us stuck here in the middle of nowhere, then,” he grumbles.

“Not so bad,” says Rose. “Been caught out in worse before. And in the morning, we’ll be able to find help, yeah?” She pulls blankets from the boot and motions to the men. “Look, it’s way too hot to sleep in this car. I’m gonna go lie on the beach. Maybe even take a late-night swim.”

Even in the dark, Mickey can tell Rose’s eyes are sparkling mischievously. She always did love an adventure, especially the unexpected ones.

The three of them stretch out on the scratchy wool blankets, lying on their backs to gaze up at an endless swath of stars across the sky, stars they’d never see in London. It took a year before Rose could look at the stars with anything other than longing and tears. Now they’re just an array of possibilities for her new home, some bringing trouble, some joy.

It doesn’t take long before she declares she’s ready for a swim, and she shimmies out of her jeans and t-shirt, leaving Jake blushing and Mickey gaping. “Rose,” Mickey says, “we’re right here.”

“Yeah, I’d noticed.”

“I just … uh … well, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the view, but I didn’t think I was gonna get to see it again. And Jake, I’m not sure he wants to see it at all.”

Rose kneels down beside her ex-boyfriend and reaches behind her back to unhook her bra. “You mean to tell me, Mickey Smith,” she begins slowly, and a strap slips off her shoulder, “that if I took the rest of this off, you wouldn’t be interested?”

Mickey gulps. “I definitely did not say that. Did I, Jake?”

“No, you didn’t,” Jake replies, but he lays a hand possessively on Mickey’s shoulder.

Rose’s bra drops to the blanket. She leans down, hovers over Mickey’s face, takes his left hand and uses it to cover her right breast. “We have a long, boring night ahead of us. We can lie here in the heat and the stickiness and not do anything about it if you want. But it seems an awful waste.”

Mickey’s brain and hand both seem stuck in place, so Rose turns her charm on Jake. “I bet we could kill an hour just finding all Mickey’s ticklish spots. I know a few he might not have told you about.”

Jake grins. “What makes you think I haven’t found them on my own?”

As it turns out, they find plenty. There’s the point on his inner thigh that Rose teases, trailing a finger back and forth along it as she rides Mickey hard and fast, her other hand touching herself where their bodies join. When they break apart, Jake locates a surprising sensitive spot below Mickey’s left shoulderblade, then licks his way along Mickey’s back, down, down lower to spread Mickey’s arse cheeks apart and taste him with a swirling, probing tongue. And still later, Rose nibbles on Mickey’s neck while he goes down on Jake, her attentions nearly causing Mickey to interrupt his rhythm. Jake holds him steady, inches his way deeper into Mickey’s mouth, moans and tells him how good he is, how soft and warm his lips are, how the flat of Mickey’s tongue along the bottom of his cock is driving him mad.

Hours afterwards, they rinse off, splashing and giggling, in the sea, and watch the first burnt-orange streams of sunlight appear over the horizon. Eventually they’ll have to track down whatever passes for a village in these parts, find someone with a tow truck and a spare tyre. But for now, there’s no hurry.


	7. September 23, 2006

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jackie Tyler and Jack Harkness make a sex tape. Ten watches a copy.

A few days after the Doctor leaves Jack behind on the Plass, that invisible year now behind them, he finally gathers the courage to unlock his friend's room to see if there's anything Jack might want back.

Though the bed is neatly made, with an open chest of unmentionable toys peeking out below, the desk and most other flat surfaces are littered with remnants of Jack's past. The electric handcuffs they used on Blon Fel-Fotch. A basket full of personal grooming products to the left of a basket full of more ... personal products. Holographic photos of his old self and Rose, which he thumbs off and carefully places in the box he plans to give Jack. And a scattering of multicoloured data rods that fit into Jack's wristcom.

The data rods are labelled with dates and locations, sometimes initials. The Doctor sweeps them into the box, but one rod rolls off the table and bounces under the desk. Bending to retrieve it, the Doctor sees that it's marked "September 23, 2006 - Powell Estate — JT."

No harm in taking a break from the cleaning already, is there? It's waited this long.

He unfurls the portable viewscreen Jack left behind, slots in the rod, and tells the screen "Play." It flickers on slowly, and the Doctor sucks in a breath when he sees the pink walls of a room in a flat he's tried to forget.

Except the angle of the window's all wrong, and the tint of the paint — more salmon, less fuchsia — isn't right either. A massive hand reaches up to cover the camera lens and retilt it, and there's giggling, a low baritone and a higher, girlier voice, and suddenly Jackie Tyler swings into view and bends down to kiss Jack Harkness.

The Doctor's mouth drops open. Jackie. Jack. Well, of course, Jack, he's seen Jack flirt with things he wasn't even convinced had fuckable orifices, but Jackie Tyler. Rose would have been furious if she'd known, but that day she'd been out with him at Tesco's on a critical milk-and-tea run while Jack — not entirely selflessly, the Doctor now realises — had volunteered to stay behind and repair Jackie's refrigerator.

In the recording, Jackie's head is bowed over Jack's chest as she traces a nipple with her tongue. "Oh," Jack says. "Just like that. Yes." And then "yes," again, louder, when she trails her lips down his abdomen, licks her way down his cock, and takes it in her mouth.

Things have already gone far beyond what the Doctor should be watching, but he can't bring himself to stop the playback. Jackie's technique is mesmerising — the way she suctions her cheeks around the head of Jack's cock, letting it pop out every so often so she can blow on it; one hand sliding along the sensitive ridge below, the other fondling Jack's balls. Jack is responding eagerly, thrusting up into Jackie's mouth and tenderly stroking her hair.

And the Doctor, much to his surprise, is responding too. His own cock is starting to swell in his trousers, pushing uncomfortably against the zipper. He should just stop watching the recording; this is a private moment between Jack and a woman the Doctor had to teach himself to tolerate.

But there's no one around to be embarrassed for him except himself.

He unzips his trousers, extracts his cock, and reaches for the basket on the right. Lubed up, he begins touching himself in time with Jackie's head: up, down, a pause to rub his thumb over his tip.

Onscreen, Jack murmurs to Jackie. She releases him from her mouth, smiling — oh, that flirtatious smile is familiar, the Doctor's seen it on Rose, and his cock twitches at the memory — and Jackie crawls up Jack's body, slowly lowering herself on top of him. She moans as he fills her, inch by inch, and starts to rock.

The Doctor's hand curls into a tighter fist. It isn't Jackie's cunt, much less Rose's, but it will have to do. He exhales with a hiss as he speeds up.

Jack has one hand massaging Jackie's right breast, the other wriggling against her clit. She gasps, rocking harder and calling his name. "Faster," she breathes. "Please, faster, right there." Jack bends his knees, driving himself even deeper into Jackie, and slowly pumping his hips.

The Doctor keeps matching them, motion for motion. He's getting closer, his balls tightening, and he lets the fist go for a minute, rubs himself with the open palm of his hand, anything to slow things down.

Onscreen, Jackie throws her head back, ash-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and makes a series of short, sharp sighs when Jack twists his fingers against her clit. "Come on, come on, there you go, that's it, Jackie," he says. Jackie's pace increases again, and suddenly she lets out one long cry and stops.

"Oh. _Oh._ Oh, Captain, you are _amazing,_" she says. "But we're not done yet." She resumes her earlier rhythm, stretches an arm behind her to cup Jack's balls.

Jack is thrusting harder now. The Doctor is too, his fist back around his cock, squeezing as he nears the head. Both Jack's hands caress Jackie's breasts, bringing on another fit of the giggles mixed in with tiny moans. The Doctor moans softly himself, imagining it's his long fingers tweaking Jackie's nipples, mapping the tender skin below. And finally, Jack gives two last quick thrusts, groaning as he empties himself within Jackie, and the Doctor, pumping so swiftly it's almost painful, comes himself, semen spattering his hand as he pulses.

He closes his eyes. He can hear Jack and Jackie breathing heavily, whispering phrases he can't quite make out except for "Rose" and "back soon." He wipes his hand on his trousers, tucks himself away, and tells the player to stop.

He finishes cleaning Jack's room later that afternoon, sealing the box of mementos and other possessions. And if there's one data rod missing when Jack finally opens the box, he never says anything about it.


	8. The Persistence of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mrs. Moore/Ricky/Jake - sleeping (with each other) on the job

Another long night on stakeout at Cybus Industries; another night when Mrs. Moore, disguised as a maintenance worker, has to sneak in and readjust the frequencies on her remote listening devices. Whatever Cybus is doing, every so often it makes her machinery go mad, crackling and hissing until she has to fine-tune the reception coils by hand. She's close to developing a bug with randomized multichannel scanning, but even so, she suspects she's in for several more risky midnight entrances.

Two successful adjustments later, Mrs. Moore returns to the Preachers' van, slides open the side door, and interrupts Ricky on his knees in front of Jake. She stifles her surprise and closes the door; stalks a few feet away from the van and crosses her arms over her chest, shaking her head.

The door flies open a minute later. Jake walks over to Mrs. Moore, touches her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"I was in the middle of a Cybus Industries factory," Mrs. Moore says. "I was trusting you and Ricky to listen in on the two-way in case I ran into trouble."

"I know." Jake scuffs his feet against the wet grass. "It was stupid. We were stupid. I'm really, really sorry."

"You'd better be." She gazes up at the dark, the moon a nearly invisible sliver of silver overhead. "But then again, who knows how much time any of us have left now? You and Ricky should love each other while you can."

She relaxes her arms, and Jake takes her hand to lead her back inside the van, where Ricky is equally apologetic.

"It's okay. Mind you, don't let it happen again, but it's okay just this once." Mrs. Moore fiddles with a dial on her receiver rig. All the lights are green. The bugs are okay, too.

The three of them sit in silence until Ricky says, "You miss him, don't you? Your husband."

"Every day," Mrs. Moore replies. "Every single day. But keeping him out of this, it was the right thing to do." She slumps in one of the side bench seats of the van, remembering the last cup of tea she brought him, the last time she kissed his stubbly cheek, the last morning she watched him sleepily hit the snooze alarm before rolling over.

She tries never to think of the look on his face when he heard about her fatal car accident.

"You ever get ... lonely?" Ricky asks.

"Lonely how, exactly? If you're asking what I think you're asking, it's not really your concern."

"Just curious."

"You've got Jake," she says. "And I've got ... a few things I built." Her lips begin to curve into a smile. "Maybe some other time I'll show you."

"Come on, you can't leave us hanging like this," Jake says. "Besides, I knew you were up to something all those days you spent locked in the bedroom telling us you were building those new bugs. You're more clever than that, you must have worked those out by now."

Mrs. Moore nudges her courier bag over to Jake with a touch of her foot. "Those bugs are trickier than you think. But you're right, there was another project. Open that up."

The courier bag contains her portable EMP bomb, a neatly organized box of microtools, her headlamp, a spare torch, a half-eaten bologna sandwich, and a heavy item about 6" long, wrapped carefully in a silk kerchief. Jake unrolls the silk and catches the metal dildo in his hands, turning it to reflect the dim light in the van and noting the tiny steel hemispheres nestled with precision all over the device.

"Mrs. Moore," he breathes, "you've outdone yourself."

"Give it here," she says, and takes it from him. "Battery operated, but surprisingly low power usage — I've learned a thing or two about extending battery life over the years — and each of these knobs is a ball bearing capable of independent rotation with the twist of a dial. Like so." She demonstrates, and the dildo rumbles to life, vibrating in her hands and whirring as the balls spin in place.

Ricky's eyes widen. "Unbelievable."

"It's pretty good," Mrs. Moore admits.

Ricky rises to his feet. "Show us how you use it. You got to see us a little while ago, only fair we get to see you." He extends his hand to Jake to join him. "Come on, it's my turn with Jake anyway. You can watch again if you like."

She doesn't really have a chance to tell them no before they begin: Ricky unzipping his fly, Jake dropping to the floor, reaching into Ricky's underwear, withdrawing his cock.

She could open the door and leave anytime she wants, but somehow, she doesn't. The way Jake draws Ricky into his mouth, closes his eyes to better savor his lover — something inside her, dusty and packed away, still remembers the first time she did this with her husband, the first time she let him come in her mouth, every time after that.

She unzips her trousers, slides them below her knees along with her pants, and turns on the dildo.

It's still cool to the touch right now, distractingly cold, but as she lets the tip vibrate against her folds, it warms quickly. She draws it down her slit slowly, imagining her husband's tongue there, lapping at her inelegantly but effectively, him sucking her clit into his mouth and buzzing his tongue against it until she laughed and gasped and came.

Ricky is braced against the wall of the van, Jake fondling Ricky's balls as he pulls his cock farther into his mouth. Mrs. Moore lets a quiet moan escape her lips as she inserts the dildo and twists the dial.

The ball bearings whirl in their orbits, and it's like being tickled and massaged and fucked all at the same time. She pulls it out, pushes it in, thrusting a little bit faster with every motion, tracking the memory of a rhythm she tries so hard not to miss.

Soon enough, Ricky comes with a shout and his hand driving Jake along his shaft. Mrs. Moore takes another few minutes beyond that, one last push and twist of the dildo, her head thrown back and mouth open with a nearly silent, shuddering breath.

Still panting, she removes the device, wipes it down with the kerchief, and wraps it as fastidiously as before. She places it in the courier bag, latches the bag shut, and nods over at Ricky.

"Start driving," Mrs. Moore says. "It's a long way home."

There should be a cup of tea, and silly, familiar conversations, and her husband to curl around her in the morning and make her late for work.

She gets the tea, at least.


	9. Not Available in Any Store

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sex-toy!Autons. (Jack/OCs/living plastic)

March 6, 2005, the night the shop window dummies come to life, Captain Jack Harkness has brought a trio of leather boys he picked up in a club to his hotel room for a very private party. There's cock enough for everyone, especially after one of the boys whips out a stiff, thick, double-headed dildo.

Jack shares the dildo with its owner, setting up that tricky push-me-pull-you rhythm, and somewhere in the middle of a backwards thrust and a few particularly pleasant strokes on his own cock, he feels the dildo nudging his prostate that much more actively. It's rotating slowly, pressing and rubbing inside him like an extraordinarily talented set of fingers. Jack tugs more vigourously and the dildo seems to grow still more excited, thrusting of its own volition, pounding into Jack and his partner.

If Jack couldn't feel his partner's sweaty back sliding against his own, he'd assume someone had switched positions on him, especially after the bulbous join between the dildo shafts comes to life and starts smoothly licking its way around his arsehole. It's physically impossible, but feels so tremendous that Jack couldn't care less, and he keeps jerking off, harder, faster, until he comes ferociously, spurting all over the hotel room mirror.

Afterwards, they all examine the toy, which twitches and dribbles little plastic buds of semen from its tip, and then, quite suddenly, stops dead as if a hidden internal spring has wound down. Jack twists the toy in his hand, running his fingers over it to feel for concealed machinery, but there's nothing except the slickness of lube and liquid, and the warmth of having been inside two men's bodies.

In the morning, Jack confiscates the dildo for "national security reasons."

It never moves again, but not for lack of trying on his part.


	10. The Right Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Six/Donna - wrong TARDIS wrong bed, right Doctor.

Donna ran through the bazaar at top speed, her pursuers only a few steps behind her. Damned Doctor — he'd given her the Makhoffan Ruby to hold for a minute and promptly disappeared. The next thing Donna knew, a platoon of men yelling and waving scimitars were chasing her through a crowded marketplace.

She'd seen that kebab stand earlier, she was certain, back when they'd landed the TARDIS. Not much farther, then ... right, left, left again ... or was it right?

At last, she turned down a narrow corridor between two scarf vendors and nearly slammed into the TARDIS doors. She had her key in the lock and the door closed behind her in a matter of seconds, the ship's omnipresent hum drowning out the shouts of the soldiers outside.

The hum, however, was the only thing she recognised about the ship. The majestic coral struts and soothing turquoise tint of the Time Rotor were gone, replaced by clinical, antiseptic white walls and a hard-edged console that looked like it had cost £50 at IKEA. On sale.

The Doctor was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a round-faced, curly-haired man wearing the most astonishingly hideous coat she'd ever seen, striped yellow trousers, and ... were those spats? She hadn't seen anyone wearing spats since the day she'd found H.C. Clements webbed to the basement ceiling.

Lunatic costumes aside, Donna wasn't going to let the stranger's incursion into the TARDIS pass unchallenged. "Who are you?" she demanded. "What are you doing here?"

The man looked up at her, startled. "What am _I_ doing here? What are _you_ doing here?"

"I live here! I travel with the Doctor!"

"My dear girl, you most certainly do not."

"Don't you patronise me, you pudgy old codger." Donna marched up next to the man and poked her finger into his lapel. "And I hope to God you aren't the interior decorator — as if that vomitous sack of scraps you're wearing isn't bad enough, what the hell have you done to the TARDIS?"

"I haven't done anything! She's looked like this for years." The man reached down and petted the console, stroking it with distinct affection. "Don't worry, old girl, I'm sure the nasty ginger harpy didn't mean anything by that."

"You ... you're touching the TARDIS just like him."

"Like what?" the man replied, his voice curt and irritated.

Donna folded her arms over her chest. "Like the reason that none of your girlfriends stick around is that they can't compete with you shagging your sodding ship."

"You," the man spluttered, his face reddening, "you are the most disgusting, degenerate ... what's another word that begins with 'd' ..."

"'Depraved.'"

"... _depraved_ young woman to ever set foot on this ship. But that ends now." He grabbed Donna's upper elbow and tried to muscle her toward the door, but she wouldn't budge.

"I'm not going anywhere, Doctor, not until you tell me what the bloody hell is going on here. It is you, isn't it? No one else could be that pointlessly rude."

"Except you, I believe."

Donna smirked. "I am never pointlessly rude. If I'm rude to you, you effing well deserve it."

The Doctor grabbed Donna's other arm and stared into her eyes. "I've never met you before, but you let yourself in with a key. That means at some point in my future, I decide you're worthy of joining me on my travels. Worthy of seeing everything the universe has to offer."

"That I am."

"Then I only have one question for you, miss ..."

"Donna."

"Donna," he said, his face softening. "Hotheaded, vile-tempered, rude, ginger Donna. Where have you been all my life?"

Donna cocked an eyebrow at him. "You might have picked your clothes out in the dark this morning, sunshine, but you're a better sweet-talker than my skinny bloke's ever been."

"It's the ectomorphic body type. Not enough meat on his bones to keep his brain properly adjusted and working at optimum efficiency." The Doctor relaxed his grip on Donna, allowed one hand to comb through her hair. "Care to see what things are like instead with a man in his intellectual and physical prime?"

"You can take me back to him later, right?"

"Of course. If that's what you want."

"Let's see how you do in the bedroom first."

* * *

This was more like it. If pressed, Donna would admit that her Doctor was pretty, but would never have gone any further. This version of him, the one who'd explained he was the sixth incarnation, had a rough and undeniable animal magnetism — Donna couldn't help but tangle her fingers in his thicket of chest hair as they rolled naked on his bed, couldn't stop herself from clutching at his powerful, muscular buttocks as he flipped her on her back and used his knee to wedge apart her thighs.

He withdrew his tongue from her mouth long enough to insert two fingers she greedily licked; then he drove them between her pussy lips, down farther inside her cunt, making her gasp and buck with every stroke.

"I bet you've always wondered what it would be like with me, Donna," he whispered, his lips gliding over her collarbone. "That weak and puny future model of me would never be capable of this." He fucked her steadily with his fingers, added a thumb to rub outside and draw out a moan, slid down to nip and suck at the peak of Donna's right breast.

"I'd ... I'd never let him anyway," she breathed. "He'd snap like a twig." She reached down to clasp his wrist. "And if you don't take those fingers out of me right now and fuck me, I'll snap you in half, too."

"As you wish, my dear," the Doctor said, withdrawing his hand and plunging his cock inside Donna. He closed his eyes, thrust once, murmured "Yes ... that will do," and returned to suckling her breast.

Donna locked her legs over his, pulling him in as deep as he'd go. His balls slapped warmly against her cunt, his tongue was doing the most amazing things to her nipples, and every time Donna clawed at his curly hair, his motions sped up.

When she felt him stiffen above her, then bear down even harder, she squeezed her cunt around him, tightening rhythmically, until he groaned loudly and pulsed within her. He collapsed on top of her, spent.

They lay together like that for a moment until Donna shoved him off to the side, reached for his hand, and placed it back between her legs. "You may be finished, sweetheart, but I'm not," she said, and ran her hand through his hair again until he got the message.

He rubbed at her, gently at first, then with far greater force, whispering in her ear, "Every time you see him, I want you to think of me. Think of me fucking you with my hand, and my tongue, and my cock. Think of me making you scream like he never will."

And Donna did scream then, as she came, wet and throbbing, around his fingers.

* * *

The Doctor was true to his word, returning her to the correct TARDIS at the correct time, but bid her a melancholy goodbye. "I'm going to have to make myself forget this, Donna," he said, stroking her cheek. "But maybe someday I'll remember."

Donna found her Doctor in the control room, fiddling with buttons and wires as usual. "Ah, there you are, Donna. I've been wondering where you ..." His voice trailed off, and his eyes grew wide.

"Donna," he said, gulping.

"Good to see you again, skinny, but don't get any ideas." She shook her head and loped off towards her room. "I'm a one-Doctor girl now, and you," she said, looking over her shoulder at him as she disappeared down the corridor, "you are definitely _not_ him."


	11. Forgive Us Our Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The Doctor/Gaius Baltar: Jesus Imagery + Genocide + Self-Loathing Man-Pain = Kink (_Battlestar Galactica_ crossover; Nine/Baltar)

"I can save them," insists Baltar. "I can save them all."

"Yeah, I used to think the same thing," says the man in the leather jacket. He unzips his trousers, squirts something into his hand, and inserts one moistened finger into Baltar's arsehole.

Gaius inhales sharply. "That's a bit ... different."

"Don't tell me you haven't done this before. Most decadent president the Twelve Colonies ever had, never taken it up the bum?" The finger probes deeper, wiggles around to stretch taut skin.

"I admit there might have been a few nights on New Caprica I don't fully recall," Baltar says. He wraps his right hand around his cock, tugs on it slowly in time with the Doctor's finger. "But everything now is so much clearer. The one true God has shown me the path to righteousness. The path to forgiveness."

The Doctor laughs once, a barking, scoffing noise, and shoves a second finger inside Baltar. "You really think there's a God, Gaius? That He's made you His prophet, here to preach the gospel to every desperate single woman in the Colonial Fleet?"

Baltar braces his other hand against the desk. He's let women play with his arse before, but none of them were really serious about it, not even Tori. The Doctor, on the other hand, has already pulled enough tricks with just fingertips and knuckles to convince Baltar that even if he can't recall ever having been fucked by another man, he's sure as hell ready to give it a shot now.

"God loves all of us," he says, gripping his cock a little tighter. "Even unbelievers like you, Doctor."

The Doctor withdraws his fingers from Baltar's arsehole, and for a moment, all Baltar can hear is the gentle, liquid sound of the Doctor's hand stroking himself. "Take a deep breath, Gaius," he says, and after Baltar complies, the Doctor enters him, holding still after inserting the tip of his cock. He pushes in slowly, groaning when he finally makes it all the way in. He pulls back just as carefully, then starts pumping in earnest.

"Go on, Gaius, tell me how your loving God can forgive someone for killing their entire race." The Doctor licks the back of Baltar's neck, suddenly biting hard to make the other man yelp. "You ought to know something about that."

Baltar's breath hitches, and not just from the way the Doctor has covered Baltar's hand with his own, forcing a faster, more erratic rhythm across Baltar's cock. "I ... I have no idea what you're talking about," he says.

"Really?" Another nip, another long swirl of the tongue across Gaius' neck, producing a whimper. "No idea how the Cylons could have got hold of Colonial defence codes?"

"You can't possibly know about that," Baltar whispers.

The Doctor's hand speeds up, and Baltar feels his balls begin to tighten.

"I know all sorts of things, Gaius. Me, I'm a regular genocide aficionado." The depth and pace of the Doctor's thrusts roughens, as do his motions along Baltar's cock. "And if there's one thing I know about genocide, it's that even if you have an excuse, there's still no forgiveness, not from you, not from me, and certainly not from any all-powerful deity you've dreamed up."

He fucks Baltar harder still, driving him down toward the desk, one hand sliding down to squeeze Gaius' balls while the other covers his cock, and suddenly Baltar shoots all over the floor. The Doctor rubs the last dribbles of liquid over Baltar's cock. Baltar, panting for breath, looses his grip on himself to grab behind for the Doctor's thigh, shove himself back onto the Doctor's cock.

Soon, Baltar can feel the Doctor pulsing within him, two more quick thrusts as he finishes.

"Why," Gaius asks, still gasping from exertion, "why would I need your forgiveness?" He rests his palms against the desk as the Doctor withdraws, then turns to face the other man, holding his gaze. "Don't project your sick fantasies on me, Doctor. I don't seek your absolution. Are you seeking mine?"

The Doctor zips himself up, touches Baltar's cheek. "Like I said, Gaius: no forgiveness, not from you, and not from me. You've kept silent all this time, pretending nothing happened. And I can't help but keep silent, because there's no one left to hear me."

He kisses Baltar once before disappearing out the door, his cool tongue sliding briefly between Gaius' lips. And long after he's gone, Baltar finds himself on his knees, praying to God, begging for something he thought he knew how to ask for.

It's beyond his grasp, but he never stops asking.


	12. How Do Porcupines Mate?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Doctor/Master spiky cocks. (Ten/Simm!Master. Warning: dark and twisted, with a little bit of blood.)

Less than a week into his captivity on the Valiant, the Doctor is summoned to the Master's chambers. The Master deadlocks the door with his laser screwdriver, then returns the Doctor to his former youthful self, leaving the Doctor no doubt as to why he's been brought here.

The Doctor leans back in his wheelchair, crossing his legs casually. "I knew it was only a matter of time."

The Master loosens his tie and tosses his jacket on the bureau. "Lucy's fine for what she is. Pretty. Blonde. Completely mad, but then again, that's my doing. I'm quite proud of that, really."

The Doctor rises to his feet and begins unbuttoning the Master's shirt. "But she isn't Gallifreyan."

"No," the Master says, and pets the Doctor's head fondly as he tongues one of the Master's nipples. He lets the Doctor keep going for a while, then unzips his trousers and steps out of them. His cock is still soft, the quills flat against his skin.

The Doctor takes the hint, allowing himself one last lick before stepping away to remove his own clothing. He keeps his tie, using it to swaddle his right hand like a bandage, before kneeling between the Master's legs and taking the other man's cock into his mouth.

The quills on the Master's cock rise as he hardens, and both men moan: the Master, because of the Doctor's dedicated, worshipful sucking; the Doctor, because the quills are activating erogenous zones inside his cheeks and on his palate, areas that respond only to Gallifreyan sex pheromones. The Doctor has his right hand wrapped around his own cock, sliding it gingerly over his own erect quills, always moving from tip to root so as not to cut himself. The hands, alas, are lacking in pheromone receptors and natural protection.

"That's good," hums the Master. "That's so good." He rests his hands on the Doctor's head, pushing him down farther onto his cock, until the Doctor's nose is brushing against his pubic hairs. "I've missed your mouth, Doctor. The freak downstairs is impressively good with his, you know, but it's not the same without the quills."

The Doctor jams a finger into his mouth to moisten it, stifling a cry of pain as the spines along his partner's cock rip into the digit. He withdraws it, blood trickling down his hand, and reaches behind the Master's balls to insert it into his arsehole. The Master sighs and presses harder on the Doctor's head.

"Do you know what I'd like, Doctor? I suppose that's a silly question; you're doing it right now. But besides having you suck me off?" The Master peers down at the Doctor, still blissfully preoccupied with the cock in his mouth and the one in his hand.

"I think sometime soon, maybe even right after this, you and I should take a little excursion over to the freak's cell. I'd very much like to find out what happens when I fuck him up the arse with the spikes. Because, you see, without you there, the quills just won't come out and play."

That, finally, is enough to make the Doctor stop. The Master is still holding his head steady, so he can't pull away, but he can at least glare.

"Now, now," the Master says, and strokes the Doctor's hair tenderly, "we're both so close. You want to finish this, don't you? After all, we've only got each other, and it's just never the same with humans, is it?"

The Doctor's eyes narrow, then finally close as he returns to his task.

The Master feels tension building through his balls, thrumming along his cock, all the quills vibrating. He speeds up, thrusting roughly into the Doctor's mouth, until he comes with a shout, hands yanking at the Doctor's hair. At last, he releases the Doctor, leans down and kisses him, tasting semen and blood mixed together on the Doctor's swollen tongue. He flips the Doctor's head back, reaches with an unprotected hand to brush down the quills on the Doctor's cock, making his partner shudder and whimper.

"Are you ready?" he asks, and the Doctor nods silently.

The Master's hand moves in time with the Doctor's own, then faster, and faster still, in both directions. Next time, perhaps, he'll do this with his own mouth, but right now, there's uniquely exquisite pain to experience, pain no other person can cause him anymore.

When he feels warm liquid on his forearm, and contractions in his hand as the Doctor comes and his quills soften and begin flattening against the skin, he's almost disappointed it's over so soon. But there will be many more days like this, he thinks. Many more times he'll have the Doctor brought to him, or times the Doctor will beg for him instead.

Because they're the last two, and no one else will do.


	13. Harry Potter and the Bedroom of the Oncoming Shag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Doctor/Master: Harry Potter role-playing with added sex. (Ten/Simm!Master)

"Feathers?" asks the Doctor.

"We did that last week," sighs the Master. "Your ostrich allergy rather killed the mood, as I recall."

"So it did, so it did." The Doctor adjusts his glasses and rummages deeper in the toy box. "How about an old classic — handcuffs! They're fur-lined ..." he sing-songs, dangling the manacles in front of the Master's face.

The Master bats them away. "Those were boring back on the Valiant; they won't be any more interesting in your bedroom."

The Doctor slams the lid of the toy chest and crosses his arms. "I give up. If you're going to be that picky, you have to make a suggestion."

The Master squints at the ceiling, then looks around the room, searching for options. His gaze stops at a built-in shelving unit sagging with haphazard stacks of books.

"Role-play," he says, and crawls across the bed to grab the Doctor by his tie, pulling his face down to his level. "You'll be Remus Lupin, mild-mannered, bookish wonk. I'll be Sirius Black, daring outlaw on the run."

"There's no specific evidence in the text that Sirius and Remus were lovers," says the Doctor, his breath hot on the Master's face. "Can't two men be nothing but good friends? Best enemies, even?"

The Master cranes his neck towards the Doctor, tilts his head so their lips are only millimetres apart. "You're not paying attention to the subtext, Doctor." He extends the tip of his tongue to pry open the Doctor's lips. "It's all there if you know where to look."

He kisses the Doctor then, hard and fast and messy, his tongue mapping the interior of the Doctor's mouth, then withdraws just as the Doctor begins to make small squeaking noises in the back of his throat.

"Subtext. Right," the Doctor says, and loosens his tie. "Well, who cares about authorial intent anyway?"

He gives in, dropping down on the bed, and the Master covers him with his body, sliding a hand down between the buttons on the Doctor's shirt to pop them open.

"Oh, Remus," he breathes, "I missed you so much those long years in Azkaban."

"There was never anyone else for me but you, Sirius," the Doctor replies, his lips drifting along the Master's jawline, down to his neck, nipping lightly as he goes. "My werewolf nature has made me hungry for you."

"Just as I have been filled with desire for you, darling," the Master continues, unzipping the Doctor's fly and shoving his hand unceremoniously down the other man's pants. "My body ached for your ferocious cock, my feral, lupine lover."

The Doctor gasps and arches his back when he feels the Master's fist wrap around him. "'Lupine' lover? Isn't that a bit overwrought? His last name is 'Lupin,' after all."

The Master's stroking ceases. "I can take my cock, my right hand, and that sticky copy of _Science Lab Sluts_ off to another room anytime I like, you know."

"Sorry ... Sirius. Please, don't stop. I, uh, need your ... er ... hot, hairy, gigantic dog dick in me. Real bad."

"Close enough," the Master shrugs, and resumes his earlier activity.

* * *

Afterwards, the two men lie spread-eagled on the bed, naked and glistening with sweat and lubricant. Both men's ties are knotted together, wrapped around the Master's neck like a leash, the Doctor holding tight to one end.

"That ... that was not bad," the Doctor says, his breath fast and shallow.

"The biting," murmurs the Master. "I'm going to have scars for a week, you naughty little werewolf."

The Doctor tugs on the leash, making the Master yelp. "Bad dog. No complaining," he says. "Besides, you loved it."

"Mmm."

"Want to do that again sometime?"

"Sure," the Master says. "I'll be Harry Potter, the heroic, resourceful young wizard with the mightiest wand in the world. You can be Hermione Granger, arrogant, know-it-all bint who needs a good slapping-down."

"Oi! Harry and Hermione weren't canon, either!"

The Master rolls his eyes. "Never let canon stand in the way of a good fuck."

"I suppose what JKR doesn't know won't hurt her," muses the Doctor. "Now, Harry, tell me all about the trouble you're having with your Potions assignment ..."


	14. It Pays to Plan Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Four/Donna, meeting at an orgy

"Doctor, I said I wanted to go to a party."

"This is a party, Donna. See? Lots of people everywhere, having ... fun."

"For future reference, when I say 'party,' I mean cocktails, and good-looking blokes to chat up, and maybe a bit of loud music. _Not an orgy._"

"There's some good-looking blokes right over there in the corner. Though judging by the fact that there are _only_ good-looking blokes in that corner, you might not be their type. But cocktails! I'm sure there's a bar somewhere. Wait here, I'll go find one."

"Wait here? I'm not waiting anywhere without you!" Donna cried, but by then, the Doctor had disappeared into the crowd.

He really was gone. The skinny idiot had pulled some appalling tricks in the time Donna had been travelling with him, but leaving her on her own in the middle of an orgy had to be a new low. She whirled in place, craning her neck above the crowd — those few people at the party _not_ having sex all seemed to be standing in her way — but the Doctor was nowhere to be found.

That did it. Oblivious bugger could bloody well find her back in the TARDIS. Donna turned back towards the entrance and immediately bumped into a tall man with curly brown hair and more clothes on than anyone else in the room, including a maroon- and rust-coloured scarf draped multiple times around his neck.

"Lost, madam?" he asked.

"Just trying to find my way out of here," Donna replied. "This isn't really my sort of party."

"Nor mine. My ship decided to stop here. I've learned to listen to her hunches over the years, but right now I suspect her hunch-o-meter could use a little adjustment." The man offered Donna his arm. "Care to join me for a brief stroll anywhere else but here?"

"Absolutely," Donna said, linking her arm through his.

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, and the crowd parted before him. Soon they were in the house's foyer, a much quieter zone disturbed only by the occasional entrance and exit of partygoers, and chatter at a small bar near the clothing check.

"Why couldn't he have gone to this bar?" Donna grumbled. "Everyone's still got their clothes on here."

"We can stop for a drink if you like," the man said, and raised his finger to capture the bartender's attention. "Whiskey and ... whiskey? Yes? Two whiskeys, if you please."

Donna seated herself at the bar and patted the stool next to her. "I don't think anyone's been shagging on this. At least, I hope not. Sit down for a minute and tell me a bit about yourself. I'm Donna Noble."

"Pleased to meet you, Donna Noble," said the man, clinking glasses with her. "I'm the Doctor."

Donna choked on her whiskey.

"Something wrong?" the Doctor said. "Tastes rather smooth to me. A bit peatier than I prefer, not entirely unlike licking an ashtray. Which I try never to do, generally speaking."

"You can't be the Doctor. I'm travelling with the Doctor. You don't look anything like him."

"Oh dear. This does happen sometimes, two of us in the same place at once. Tell me, what does your Doctor look like?"

Donna sipped more of her drink. "Tall, skinny as a toothpick, spiky hair I keep telling him he needs to get cut."

"Hmm. A future me, then."

"Future ...?"

"Donna, my dear, let's just say that the phrase 'I contain multitudes' is never so true as when it applies to Time Lords. Ask your bloke to explain when he turns up again."

Donna scowled. "So much for a straight answer. You must be him."

The man grinned, his ice-blue eyes twinkling.

"Just for that," Donna said, downing the rest of her whiskey and smacking her lips, "you owe me another drink."

* * *

"... and I said to him, 'nothing with tentacles this time, please, I don't like it when my food waves back at me,' and he says ..."

"'They're just saying goodbye on their way down!'" The Doctor laughed out loud as Donna did too. "Ah, I know myself too well."

Donna's laughter slowed down to a chuckle, and she said, "I think I'm running out of stories that won't spoil you for later."

"In that case," the Doctor said, "it's my turn. Another round, sir, if you please!"

* * *

They were each down four whiskies by the time the Doctor stopped chattering and started staring into his glass, watching the ice cubes melt.

"What's wrong?" Donna asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm a foolish old man, Donna. A foolish, tipsy old man who's beginning to realise his ship is just as meddlesome a creature as he is. You see, I think she misses Romana. Adric's still on board to keep her company, but it's not the same. Romana's maths were so much more ... romantic, I suppose the word is, and the TARDIS is a sentimental old thing."

"Just like her pilot." Donna rubbed small circles on the Doctor's back.

"Romana will be fine where she is," he said, twirling the ice in his glass and raising it for a swallow.

"I think," Donna said, "that your ship brought you here to find me. Because we've both lost someone we cared about recently. I can't ... I guess I can't tell you about Lee yet, but ... well ... I know what it's like to miss someone."

The Doctor turned to look at Donna, took her left hand, and brought it to his lips to kiss it, his eyes never leaving hers. Donna shivered.

"Don't do that," she said. "Between your charm and the whiskey, I'll want to ..."

"Want to what?" he asked, and leaned closer to her. "Tell me what ..."

Donna had her hands in his curls and her lips on his before he could finish the sentence.

* * *

As it turned out, there was a hallway off the foyer where only two couples, or one quadruplet — like square dancers, the arrangement kept shifting — were occupied with each other, as private a space as they were going to find anywhere in the house. The Doctor hoisted Donna up against the wall, mouth drifting its way across her breasts, fingers reaching inside her skirt to tug down her knickers. She stepped out of them, unbuckled the Doctor's belt, and shoved her hand inside his trousers. He felt normal enough, hardening under her touch, and she curled her fingers around him, stroking hard and circling the tip with the pad of her thumb.

Soon, Donna had the Doctor's index finger plunging in and out of her, and her own hand working at his cock, and the sighs and moans of the nearby participants began to turn from embarrassing to arousing. She tried to steal a peek out of the corner of her eye at them — were they watching her? Criticising her technique? Wondering if she'd join in?

And then the Doctor removed Donna's hand and thrust his way inside her, gripping her thighs and pressing into her so she couldn't slide down the wall, and Donna decided that the only thing that mattered was that even after all that whiskey, even after all the ridiculous and embarrassing stories they'd told each other, the Doctor was a terrific fuck.

* * *

When she returned to the TARDIS, twirling her knickers around her index finger and humming happily to herself, she found her Doctor seated in the captain's chair reading a novel.

"Have a good time?" he asked, peering down his glasses at her.

"You know very well I did," Donna answered. "This why you ditched me at the party? So your other self could get lucky?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

Donna shrugged. "Sometimes the simple approach works best."

"Sometimes."

"So," Donna said, "am I going to be meeting any more of you? Just want to know if I should lay in a supply of the good knickers."

"You'll have to wait and see," the Doctor said, and winked at her. "But it can't hurt to go shopping, just in case."


	15. 12 Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Time Lords require 12 hours of stimulation to come. Rose, Martha and Donna take turns. (Ten/Rose, Ten/Martha, Ten/Donna, Ten/Rose/Martha/Donna, implied Martha/Donna)

"Twelve _hours_?" Rose asked. "Not minutes?"

"Practically seconds, for some blokes," grumbled Donna.

"Hours," confirmed the Doctor. "Time Lords require twelve hours of stimulation prior to orgasm. We're a very long-lived race, or anyway, we were until I blew up the planet, so we didn't have intercourse that often or we'd have been overrun with Time Tots. And eventually, as genetic engineering became more common, we bred in a prolonged stimulation cycle so that those few times we did have sex, it lasted long enough that we didn't mind going hundreds of years between shags."

"Well, if we're going to do this, we're going to do it right," said Martha, yanking a clipboard out of her UNIT-branded courier bag. "I've put together a list of supplies — case of bottled water, protein bars, lubricant, some rubber items Jack suggested ... we're ready for anything."

  
**HOUR 1**

Rose won the coin toss and started things off with a round of deep, moist kisses, her tongue twining around the Doctor's, her hand skating down his shirt to rest against the front of his trousers. She stroked the tips of her fingers along the placket, barely skimming the fabric, until she felt it rise up to meet her.

"Now we're getting somewhere," she murmured, and stroked the tiniest bit harder.

"Oh," the Doctor said. "That's rather nice."

"Good," said Rose. "Because this is all we're doing for the next fifty-one minutes."

"Aww!"

  
**HOUR 2**

Donna had first crack at clothing removal, but per instructions, could only discard items above the Doctor's waist. Still, there was a difference between removing and discarding entirely, and as lovely as it was to kiss the Doctor, Donna derived a surprising sense of satisfaction out of gagging him with his tie. Especially when it meant all he could do was moan, not talk, as she cupped him through his trousers.

Later, tie removed and tossed over the headboard for future use, the Doctor tried to participate. He reached up for Donna's breasts, but she slapped his hand away. "Down, boy. Save some for later."

The Doctor batted his eyelashes at her. "Slap my hand again, Donna. Go on, you know you want to."

"Pervert. Now you'll have to wait until hour six for that."

The Doctor groaned and flopped back on the bed.

  
**HOUR 3**

"My, Doctor, you certainly seem excited," said Martha, carefully peeling down the Doctor's trousers and underwear. "Rose and Donna do excellent work."

"Two hours I've been like this. Two hours. You know what I said about not minding going hundreds of years between shags? That was a load of bollocks. Complete, utter non— oh, oh, my, Martha, oh, you certainly do know your anatomy —"

"Top marks, me. I learned lots of things in medical school, but not always in the classroom ..."

She bent down and wrapped her lips around the head of the Doctor's cock, tonguing the tip and then sucking it in. The Doctor closed his eyes and moaned as Martha drew him in deeper, tighter, her hands grasping his hips for leverage.

He moaned again when Martha withdrew. "Be patient," she said, and smiled wickedly at him. "Less than ten hours to go now, and I've got plenty of other tricks for when my jaw cramps up." She dove back down, and the Doctor decided to stop keeping track of the time, just this once.

  
**HOUR 4**

Martha, Rose, and Donna sprawled on a couch in the TV room flipping between Venusian soap operas and a Japanese game show that seemed to involve quite a lot of unlikely ways in which to injure yourself.

"You sure he'll be okay in there by himself for an hour?" Rose asked, grabbing a handful of popcorn for energy.

"Trust me," said Martha. "I left him alone with a copy of that video Donna and I made a couple months ago."

"Oh, that was a nice evening, wasn't it?" Donna said, grinning, and tickled Martha's ankle with her toes.

Martha winked at her, tossed a popcorn kernel in the air, and caught it in her mouth, licking her lips.

  
**HOUR 5**

"You three women left me here, all alone, one little amateur skinflick to keep me company. That wasn't very nice."

Rose cocked an eyebrow at him. "You trying to tell me that you didn't just spend the last hour wanking so hard we could practically hear you four rooms down?"

"I don't see how my personal habits could possibly be rele— Rose. You're naked."

"That's usually what happens after I take off my clothes."

"Very, very naked." He looked her up and down. "Do you have any idea how distracting that is?"

"Yes," Rose said, and pulled him over to the bed. She scooted back to the headboard, slouching against it and arching her hips upward. "And here are the rules for the next three hours: Martha, Donna, and I took care of you for the last four, so it's your turn now." She raked her fingers through his hair and tugged his head down towards her pussy.

He got to work, and soon Rose was the one who could be heard four doors away.

  
**HOUR 6**

Donna revised her opinion of gagging the Doctor with his tie. Sure, it kept him quiet, but it also kept that tongue of his occupied, and all things considered, she vastly preferred how he was using it right now: delicate flicks against her clit that made her whole body shudder, a swirl inside her as he brought his hands to bear on her as well.

It wasn't until somewhere into hour seven, when she lay on the couch in a daze, a blissful smile on her face, that she remembered she'd forgotten to slap him.

  
**HOUR 7**

"Blimey," Rose said. "That Martha's a shrieker, isn't she?"

"Yeah," Donna replied, nodding knowingly. "She sure is."

  
**HOUR 8**

"You did _what_?" said Donna.

"Tied up in a chair, hands behind his back, some fur-covered contraption of Jack's on his lap," Martha answered. "And this," she said, removing a two-inch long gunmetal grey lozenge from her pocket, "is the remote control."

"Gimme," said Rose.

  
**HOUR 9**

"You can't ... no, please ... you promised ..."

_Click. Click. Click._

"Oh. That's not fair, speeding it up like ... oh ... thaaaaattttttt ...."

_Click. Click._

"... did I tell you to stop? I most certainly did not. Yes. Mmm, like that. _Please._"

_Click. Click. Click._

"Just promise me one thing," the Doctor said, panting as Jack's toy continued to to caress him. "Those photos will never wind up on the internet."

The only response he heard was giggling as the girls disappeared back down the corridor.

  
**HOUR 10**

By now the Doctor's cock was practically purple, engorged with blood and hard enough that Rose had no trouble at all sliding him inside her.

"That's more like it," he sighed, rolling his hips, and Rose sighed herself. She knew she'd be sore tomorrow, but right now, rocking leisurely above the Doctor, her hands brushing over his chest and teasing his nipples, right now she truly didn't care.

  
**HOUR 11**

"... and your arse, Donna, your arse is amazing. Perfectly round, just the right size for grabbing ..."

"That's it, alien boy, park it right in there," Donna said, grunting as she felt first one, then two slick fingers probing her. "I want your cock in back, three fingers in my cunt, and your other hand on my left tit, got it?"

The Doctor began carefully inching his way inside Donna's arsehole. "You know, you still owe me a good slapping, Miss Noble."

"You'll get my filthy mouth and you'll like it, you little slag," she responded, and felt the Doctor speed up accordingly. Amazing how much he enjoyed being abused, and after ten and a half hours of torment, he was probably more than ready to pop. There was no reason not to keep pushing him, though, and Donna began lining up her insults for the next thirty minutes.

  
**HOUR 12**

Forty-nine minutes into the foreplay and fucking, there was a knock on the door, and Rose and Donna entered.

"We didn't want Martha to get all the fun at the end," Rose explained.

"Of course not," the Doctor said through gritted teeth. Over seven hundred minutes of sexual stimulation, and yet somehow now, now his lovers decided to bring things to a halt.

Martha gently pushed the Doctor off her and rolled him onto his back. "This is what we've all been waiting for," she said. "Lie still."

So he did.

Rose and Donna each held down one of his arms, Martha sat on his legs, and all three of them wrapped a hand around his cock, rubbing in rapid little circles. The Doctor kept thrusting upwards, lost in sensation, nearly twelve hours' worth of pleasure building and building; until finally at minute 719, he came, crying out harshly, semen spurting over his chest in three long bursts, his cock throbbing almost painfully.

They were quiet, the four of them, through minute 720.

  
**HOUR 13**

"Can we go again?"


	16. Sweet as Candy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Howard the Grocer/ Jackie Tyler ... and a satsuma.

Howard circumscribes the satsuma with a fingernail, digs in to lift a chunk of peel away, a ragged-edged circle he carefully balances on Jackie's right nipple. She giggles, tousling his thinning brown hair.

"This is why it's good to always have a piece of fruit around," Howard says, topping Jackie's left nipple with a matching scrap of satsuma skin. He removes a third piece, much larger, and folds it in half between thumb and forefinger, spraying a fine mist of juice on Jackie's lips. "You never know when it'll come in handy."

"You're daft," she says, still laughing, but he quiets her with a kiss.

The rest of the peel comes off in a single hemisphere and is placed upon the nightstand. Howard splits the satsuma in half, separates a lobe, and tells Jackie to stick out her tongue. "You're good at that," he says.

She pulls a face but parts her lips for him anyway. The slice of satsuma is inserted without resistance, and with infinite care.

Howard eats a piece of it himself — fresh, tangy, sweet sacs of juice popping ripely in his mouth. Sticks another piece of it into Jackie's mouth, taking the next for himself, first dragging it slowly through the sweat pooled on her stomach. Sex always makes him hungry.

"I should get up," Jackie sighs. "I've got loads of washing to do." She begins to lift herself up on her elbows, disturbing the satsuma peels on her chest, but Howard presses her back down, his palm flat between her breasts.

"Washing can wait. This satsuma, on the other hand" — he feeds two connected lobes to Jackie — "it's right at its peak. It'd be criminal to waste such good fruit. Besides, I've got plans for these last couple of pieces."

If Jackie notices the wicked gleam in Howard's eye, she doesn't say anything.

He separates the pieces, dragging one along Jackie's stomach again. This time, he doesn't stop when he gets to her bellybutton, just keeps going until he's covered the piece in Jackie's own juices.

"Howard!"

"Mmm," he says, popping it into his mouth and chewing with great satisfaction.

Jackie settles back against her pillows, amusement in her eyes and on her lips. "Do that again," she says.

Howard breaks the last piece in half and squeezes it, dripping juice into Jackie's slit. He swallows the halves quickly, then laps up the droplets, his tongue describing a circle around her clitoris, catching every last trickle.

"Sweet as candy," he murmurs, and returns to his task. Jackie tastes like salt and sex and citrus. Howard trails his tongue along her labia, rolls her clit on the tip of his tongue like a stray orange seed, sucks on her until she comes apart in pieces, peeled open before him, calling his name as she bucks hard under his mouth.

Howard spends many more nights in the flat, each time carrying a piece of fruit to bed. Later, when Jackie explains to the Doctor why there's a stray Granny Smith in the pocket of his dressing gown, she has to stifle a smile. Apples are fine, she thinks. But satsumas, now, those are something special.


	17. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Luke Rattigan/Miss Evangelista; he's _clever,_ she's a bit of a ditz: opposites attract.

Miss Evangelista was waiting.

She did an awful lot of that, working for Strackman Lux: waiting for his solicitors to return her calls; waiting for his drycleaning; waiting for the chef to prepare his turkey sandwich, assembled just so, with the crusts removed and a single, perfect leaf of lettuce.

Right now she was waiting at a party in early 21st century San Francisco, the latest stop on Lux's Time Agency-approved excursion in search of rare first edition novels. Miss Evangelista wasn't sure who the partygoers were. Despite the money they must have had at their disposal — Lux wouldn't have found his first editions elsewhere — most were barely older than she was, wearing jeans and t-shirts with drawings of antique robots or what might have been characters from a children's cartoon. One man had tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if she'd been to something called "Burning Man"; she had shaken her head, and told him that watching a man set on fire sounded horrible. Whoever these people were, they must have been barbarians.

So she stood by herself at the picture window overlooking the city lights and the glistening bay, a glass of white wine in her hands, waiting patiently.

"Nice view," said another man she hadn't met. He looked younger than the others, but he wore the same uniform. Black t-shirt, this one with a logo for CosaNostra Pizza; faded blue jeans; dingy trainers; the sort of precise, forced casualness that said he was rich enough not to care what anyone else thought of his wardrobe.

He extended his hand to Miss Evangelista. "Luke Rattigan."

"Miss Evangelista," she replied. "It's very nice to meet you."

Luke took a swig from his bottle of beer, then leaned over to whisper to her. "Honestly, this party sucks. I'm only here because Sergey and Larry were supposed to show, and they wanted to buy some of my algorithms — you know, just a few little things I cooked up during some spare cycles — but now I hear they flew out to New York." He shook his head. "I can't believe they think they can waste my time like that."

"I'm sorry your friends didn't come," Miss Evangelista replied. "I don't know anyone here besides Mr. Lux, and I work for him. Um, but I guess I know you now."

Luke tilted his head, and he had that look in his eyes Miss Evangelista was all too familiar with: that _what on earth are you on about, you silly girl_ look. God, she got tired of that.

"You ... you really don't know who I am, do you?"

She shook her head, but gave him a shy smile. "I'm sorry. I don't. But I do think you're kind of cute."

"Why, uh, um, thank you." The stammering was cute, too, and Luke was blushing. "Do you ... do you want me to tell you who I am?"

"You did," Miss Evangelista said. "You said your name was Luke."

"Yes," he nodded. "But I'm also the smartest person in this room. Probably the smartest person in this country, maybe this hemisphere. I invented a search engine when I was twelve, along with all kinds of other stuff, and I'm thinking of opening a school for geniuses. Somewhere else, though. I don't think they fully appreciate me here."

"I appreciate you," she said. "I like that you're talking to me. No one else has, really, and it gets kind of lonely, even at a party."

"I don't know why anyone else hasn't spoken to you," said Luke, "because ... well, because you're really pretty."

"You're very sweet, Luke," Miss Evangelista replied, still smiling bashfully. "Maybe if we're the only ones who want to talk to each other, we could go somewhere a little quieter?"

Luke extended a trembling hand towards hers. "This way," he said, and she followed him down the hall.

* * *

The sex was quick, and awkward, particularly since they were in a walk-in closet; and on the whole, not the best Miss Evangelista had ever had. Luke was clumsy and overeager, like her very first boyfriend had been, and when she'd started stroking his cock, she thought from the noises he made that things might be over before they'd barely begun. Sure enough, after only a few minutes of quick, shallow thrusts, he flopped on top of her, spent.

He raised his head from her breasts to speak to her. "Did you ... I didn't hear you ..."

She shook her head. "It's okay. I should go find Mr. Lux anyway."

He gave her that same tedious look he'd given her before. Except instead of _you'd better get going then, you stupid girl,_ she heard "It's not okay. I can do this. I can totally do this. Just give me a minute."

And then, shockingly, he slid down her body, and dropped his head between her legs, and the sex got much better.

* * *

Afterwards, giggling together by the picture window, Luke gave Miss Evangelista his card. She turned it over in her hands: it was simple and spare, a black rectangle with a name and a string of numbers in white copperplate type. "I have to go," he said. "This is the special card. That's my personal cell, not the business one. Call me."

She nodded, even though she knew she was lying, and leaned down to brush her lips against his. His eyes were still closed when she pulled away. "I'll ... I'll try," she said.

Then Luke was gone, pushing his way through the partygoers, shaking hands on his way out the door.

And Miss Evangelista was left waiting.


	18. Before and After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Nine/Martha, pref. set between LotTL and Reset. Wibbley wobbley, timey wimey.

Fourteen hours after her shift at hospital began, Martha Jones is finally on her way home, when she hears soft moans of pain coming from the alleyway beside her local.

She pauses at the alley's entrance to scan the shadows for signs of motion. Even if there aren't any Toclafane lurking behind the skip, there could still be more mundane threats to worry about, though at least now she knows three completely silent ways to dispatch a human assailant. Funny the sort of thing you pick up during a year on the run.

Instead of murderous spheres or a gang of thugs, Martha finds a man in a leather jacket slumped at the foot of the skip, blood trickling from a cut above his right eyebrow. She kneels beside him, touching his shoulder reassuringly.

"Sir? Can you speak? What happened?"

The man groans, but turns to look at Martha. "Two of the biggest blokes I've ever seen, that's what happened. Give me a squadron of the nastiest, most brutal creatures in the universe — no problem. Two muggers — I'm flat on my arse, propped up by a rubbish bin."

Martha reaches for his face. "Don't worry, I'm a doctor," she says, and carefully stretches apart the skin around the man's eyes, checking his pupil size. "Look, I can't see a thing in the dark, and I need to be sure you don't have a concussion. My flat's just around the corner. Come with me; I'll give you a quick checkup and you can call the police from there."

"No police," murmurs the man, but he allows Martha to lift him to his feet, and leans on her as she walks him home.

Inside, she shines a pocket torch in his eyes. They're a pale blue she's only ever seen in the glaciers of Alaska, and share a similar icy remoteness. The man tolerates her swabbing his wound with alcohol and accepts a temporary bandage, but flinches when she asks him his name.

"John Smith," he says.

Martha nearly drops the bottle of rubbing alcohol.

She recovers quickly, pulling a stethoscope from her bag. "Do you mind?" she asks. "Just one last check."

"I really should be going," the man says, but Martha presses down on his shoulder, holding him in place while she listens for a doubled rhythm.

The stethoscope comes off almost as quickly as it went on. "Who are you?" Martha asks. "Did you manage to regenerate after all, Master?" Her grip on the man's shoulder tightens, and he stares up at her.

"That's really, really not funny."

"I really, really wasn't joking," Martha growls. "Tell me who you are."

"I'm the Doctor," the man says, grasping Martha's wrist firmly and removing her hand from his shoulder. "And I'm leaving now." He rises out of the chair.

Martha's eyes widen. "You can't be. You'd remember me. Unless ... unless something's gone wrong with your regeneration. Or ... unless we haven't met yet."

"Wrong on the first count, possibly right on the second, the third's usually a safe bet, and the fourth is bang-on. Thanks for the first aid, but I'll be off now."

"Please," Martha says, and reaches for the Doctor's hand as he heads toward the door. "Please stay, just for a cup of tea. I've missed talking to you so much. And ... let's see ... leather jacket, Northern accent, big ears —"

"Oi!"

"... oh. Oh, I'm so sorry. But if you're the Doctor I think you are, then please, please stay. Because I think you need someone to talk to just as much as I do."

Martha watches those cool blue eyes of his examine her, contemplating a thousand potential next steps. And then the Doctor walks right past her, drops onto the couch, and says, "Earl Grey if you have it, one sugar."

* * *

An hour and a half and two cups of tea later, they're still talking.

* * *

An hour and several shots of vodka after that, they're still talking.

* * *

But the hour after that, the Doctor is kissing Martha, one hand sliding up her ribcage and not-so-stealthily migrating toward her left breast.

There is no further conversation. There is just the Doctor lifting Martha's shirt and undoing the front clasp of her bra, massaging her breasts and flicking his thumb over the tip of one, his tongue over the tip of the other. Martha yanks his jumper over his head, helps him out of his jeans and wriggles out of hers in record time. A quick rummage in her purse for a condom, and within minutes the Doctor is making his first sharp thrust inside Martha, her knee crooked over his arm, her hand clutching his shoulderblade, then reaching down to his arse, pushing him in deep.

The Doctor is almost completely silent when he comes, just a few short, tense strokes within Martha, a whoosh of breath escaping him, and that peculiar, warm sensation of him throbbing within her. He is not so oblivious that he doesn't notice Martha has yet to climax, and he lavishes attention on her breasts while his fingers work at her patiently, a tickle here, a swift rotation there, until every nerve of hers twangs and hums with pleasure.

They lie on the couch together, still intertwined, still wordless, until Martha, exhausted, falls asleep.

* * *

Martha is not surprised when she wakes a few hours later to find the Doctor gone and her body covered by the quilt she keeps folded on the back of the couch. Tilted against one of the shot glasses on the coffee table is an index card with a note written in blue biro ink: _See you again someday._

She sighs and flips the note over so she can't read it; what she can't see can't bother her. But there, on the other side of the index card, is another note:

_P.S. Please forgive the next me for being such a bloody idiot. And me, too, while you're at it._

Martha smiles to herself and burrows back under the quilt.


	19. Some Accessories Sold Separately

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The Doctor turns out to be smooth like a Ken doll. Why is Rose so pleased?

Surviving Krop Tor and the Devil was what finally tipped the Doctor and Rose over the edge from friends to something more, as within minutes of bidding farewell to the Sanctuary Base crew, Rose had grabbed the Doctor's lapels and pulled him down for a kiss. A big, aggressive, purposeful kiss with lip-biting and tongue-duelling and several other romantic metaphors, the kind of mind-blowing kiss that the Doctor had always assumed Rose was capable of, but never let himself consider unless he was alone in bed. Or the shower. Or down in the TARDIS' engine room, "fixing the helmic regulator."

They left a trail of clothing behind them on their way to the Doctor's bedroom, the Doctor arriving in just his trousers, Rose still in a bra and jeans, though not long after they hit the bed together in a tangle of limbs and hormones, the bra hurtled through the air to come to rest across a lampshade.

As the Doctor began a detailed survey of Rose's chest — oh, look, nipples! — those clearly required further investigation from his tongue — Rose took the opportunity to explore the Doctor's body, her hand creeping down his abdomen, fingers tickling their way along the fine hairs above his navel, until they reached their destination between his legs. A curiously unresponsive and flat destination, she discovered.

"Doctor?"

"Mmph?" Replying in actual words would have required relinquishing Rose's breast from his mouth, and _that_ was never going to happen.

"Doctor," Rose said, in as steady and calm a voice as she could manage, given the Doctor's continued efforts, "is there something wrong? Because you don't seem to be ... _reacting_ to what we're doing. Aren't you enjoying yourself?"

Damn. Hand gestures weren't going to cut it; he was going to have to talk. Reluctantly, he released Rose's nipple from his lips.

"Rose, I _am_ reacting, just on a quantum level. Look, it's probably easier to explain with a demonstration." The Doctor rolled onto his back and unzipped his fly. "There's a big wooden box under the bed. Bring it up here, and I'll explain everything."

Rose furrowed her brow and frowned, but reached under the bed with both hands to drag out a lacquered wood box with an ornate seal inlaid in the center. She hefted it up beside her and turned to the Doctor, who had finished removing his trousers in the meantime.

"Oh my God," she said. "Where's your — I mean — there's nothing — oh my God, you're a Ken doll!" She stretched her palm out, touching the flat surface of his groin, and he shivered.

"Careful, it's ticklish."

"What's ticklish? There's nothing there to be tickled! How are we going to ..."

"Rose, it's okay. Really, it is. All the men of my planet were like this. We've been genetically engineered for thousands of years, so there's no need for a conventional reproductive system."

Rose still looked sceptical. Then again, so had Tegan, and Turlough, and Peri, and that tentacled creature he'd picked up in his seventh regeneration, but they'd all come round eventually.

"Open the box," he said.

Rose slid back the brass clasp on the front of the box and lifted its lid. There, nestled in black velvet-covered slots, were several soft, fleshy attachments.

"Just because Time Lords don't need sex to reproduce doesn't mean we don't enjoy it," the Doctor said. "When aroused, our bodies create a highly localized nuclear magnetic field, allowing us to attach any of these devices for our own pleasure ... and our partner's."

Rose was breathing harder, staring at the attachments, her hands reaching for a thick, 9" long traditional cock. She touched it gingerly with a fingertip, then stroked it more boldly. "It feels just like the real thing."

The Doctor waggled his eyebrows at her. "And I'm not even wearing it yet."

She smiled, then pointed at another item in the box.

"But this ...?"

"For those times when I'm with a Time Lady who occasionally prefers the company of other Time Ladies."

"And this ...?"

"Ah, the 'alien' model. It's got little fronds, like an anemone, and they can expand and contract. Really more of a novelty device, but it's fun for impressing the girls who only get turned on by the idea of shagging a different species." He winked at Rose, but she laughed, shook her head, and pointed to the next device in the box.

"Okay, this one I really don't get. It's square."

"Julienne attachment. Makes gorgeous chips."

Rose's eyes widened. "I'm never going back to human men again," she said, and tossed him the 9" cock model.

"That's what they all say," the Doctor replied with a grin, and proceeded to give Rose the shag of her life.

Followed by a _terrific_ batch of chips.


	20. Breathless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Master/Lucy till death do us part ...

Lucy doesn't want Harry to die, not really. He explained to her that his kind could regenerate upon death, taking on a whole new face and body, and she's grown attached to that deceptively benevolent face of his, that way he smiles so cheerfully while uttering the filthiest, most evil things she's ever heard.

This never stops her from wrapping her hands around his neck, her thumbs digging into his windpipe, while she writhes on top of him and he clutches at her waist. He goes rock-hard when she does this, thrusts up with a force that makes her gasp and tighten the grip of her thighs and fingers.

Harry's eyes are clamped shut, and his face is going purple, but he doesn't give Lucy the signal to stop. That's another thing he told her about his people: he can go without oxygen longer than any human, long enough that both of them can come before he passes out. Harry lifts a hand from Lucy's waist, slides an index finger into her mouth for her to suckle while she keeps rubbing herself against the stomach and groin muscles taut from holding his breath. He removes his finger, up-ending his hand to crook it into the place where their bodies join so he can work her clit fast and rough, the way she likes it.

Lucy's thin arms begin to shake. It's hard work maintaining the kind of pressure Harry wants on his neck, harder still when she's concentrating on her own orgasm at the same time. It hits her in waves, radiating out from her cunt to every part of her body, a flush of heat and tingling, and she bears down on Harry's cock to bring him along with her.

He makes low keening noises in his throat, opening his mouth to beg for air, and finally Lucy knows he's close. He gives her the signal, slapping her arse three times in rapid succession; she releases her hands with a triumphant cry, and the Master comes, choking and gasping and driving up into Lucy one last time before going limp beneath her.

Lucy drapes herself on top of him. He enfolds her in his arms, and she lies on his chest while he inhales and exhales slowly, coming back down, until the beating of his twin hearts lulls her to sleep.


	21. Splinters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Nine/Jabe, gardening.

Sometimes in his dreams, Jabe survives.

They're more like fantasies, if the Doctor were to be completely honest with himself, which he rarely is. But in these idle moments, Jabe is alive, striding with him hand-in-gnarled hand through the hidden spaces in the Forest of Cheem, the places where pin spots of sunlight dapple the ferns and twisted roots below.

In a clearing lush with scattered leaves and wildflowers — trillium, violets, wild geraniums — Jabe unfastens the clasps of her silk dress and lets it fall to the forest floor. Her bark shimmers with iridescent moss, and she closes her eyes as the Doctor runs his fingers over it, exploring the crevices on her arms, at her waist.

He drops to his knees, his hands gliding across her stomach to twine in the thick patch of variegated ivy growing between her legs. His breath rustles the leaves, and Jabe sighs, strokes the soft stubble of his hair for encouragement.

She tastes of salt and oak and vanilla. Her clit is curiously hard, a knot on her body, yet its nerve endings are as sharp and sensitive as those on any other humanoid woman; she jumps with every long, slow lick he takes.

"You'll get splinters," she warns in a trembling voice.

The Doctor lifts his head, kisses the triangle of ivy. "Worth it," he says, and mouths his way back down the leaves to her cunt.

His nose fills with the scent of rain-soaked greenery when Jabe comes, convulsing around him.

Sometimes, in the fantasies, she undresses him afterwards, spreading his leather jacket inside-out upon the wildflowers, twining herself and her lianas around him as they make love. Sometimes he remains clothed, instead spends hours unearthing every little way he can make her quake and shudder.

And sometimes, on those nights when he's sure he must be dreaming instead of simply wanting, he digs a hole for her with his hands, deep enough that she can take root and grow, grow so far and so high, until her fingers touch the canopy of leaves above.


	22. One Night in Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Four/Romana II: Sex at Parisian landmarks.

In the cathedral of Notre-Dame, wedged into one of the massive oak cases in the side chapels, the Doctor kneels before Romana, pushes her skirt up over her knees, and tugs her knickers aside to expose her.

"Someone will see us," she hisses, but she still shudders when the Doctor blows a puff of air across her curls.

"Nonsense," he says. He spreads her apart with his fingers. "Everyone's either praying or taking photos of the Rose Window. No reason to notice two people tucked away inside a musty old bookcase."

He licks her once, sliding bottom to top and sucking in her clit at the end. Her cunt is warm and wet against a tongue still cold from the massive cones of cassis sorbet they'd been consuming earlier, and Romana squeaks when he makes contact.

He pulls back slightly and looks up at her. "No one will notice us _unless_ you get overexcited."

"I thought getting overexcited was rather the point of this activity," Romana says through gritted teeth. "But I can stay quiet if you can."

"We'll see," he smirks, and licks her again, tasting salt and black currants.

Romana is true to her word, sharp, fast breaths the only sound escaping her. Her nails dig into his shoulders as the Doctor continues, and when he delivers a final, fluttering flourish of his tongue to finish her off, she simply closes her eyes and opens her mouth in a soft, stuttering gasp.

When she opens her eyes, they are full of mischief and determination. "Your turn next," she says, and pushes her skirt back down, smoothing out each wrinkle with care.

* * *

They are seated at a sidewalk café in Montmartre, Sacré-Coeur looming and luminescent nearby, when Romana slips a hand below the tablecloth and under the napkin on the Doctor's lap to drum her fingers along the inside of his thigh.

He opens his menu and clears his throat. Romana's fingers migrate to his crotch, sliding over the fabric of his trousers with maddeningly gentle pressure that increases when he stays calm enough to suggest _croque-monsieurs._

"I was contemplating the _pâté de campagne_ and a green salad," she replies, and unzips his trousers. Strangely, it is no less maddening to have her hand wrapped around his steadily hardening cock, but only because Romana is moving slowly enough that she could drag this teasing out all the way through to dessert.

"Perhaps the onion soup to start with?" he asks, and then, in a more hushed and shaky voice, "And perhaps harder and somewhat faster?"

"I don't see that anywhere on the menu, and my French is outstanding. Hmm, I might be in the mood for _coq au vin,_ actually."

"I think there's enough _coq_ at this table as it is ... and oh, yes, just like that ..."

Romana continues poring over the menu, one hand lifting a glass of water to her lips, the other pumping at the Doctor in increasingly rapid strokes. "_Pâté de campagne_ and _salade verte_ it is," she says, snapping the menu closed. "_Garçon?_"

The waiter is on the opposite side of the café, but is moving just as quickly as Romana's fingers, and could easily wind his way through the cluster of tables before Romana is finished with him. "Romana," he mutters, "you need to ..."

She sighs, props her chin on her hand, and gazes up at Sacré-Coeur. "Paris really does have magnificent architecture, don't you think?" Her thumb swipes a drop of liquid from his tip; the Doctor stifles a moan and starts dropping a hand to his waist to stop Romana, but she lifts it away just as the waiter arrives.

Her hand moves even more quickly, more roughly while they order their meal. Just as the waiter turns away, Romana jerks her hand twice; the Doctor feels the soft throb of his orgasm beginning, then thrumming through his entire body as he spends himself in the conveniently placed napkin. He can't quite understand how she wrapped that around him seemingly without removing her hand, but then again, Romana was full of clever and practical tricks he'd never understand.

She smiles indulgently at him, then calls out to the waiter again. "_Garçon? Une autre serviette, s'il vous plaît._"

* * *

Romana's hands and knees are planted solidly on the parquet floor. The Doctor kneels behind her, fucking her leisurely, one hand flat against the ridges of her spine, the other massaging her right breast.

It is 3am. They have broken into the Louvre with the Doctor's sonic screwdriver, and are facing the Mona Lisa, admiring their handiwork one last time before leaving Paris.

"It looks so small and insignificant, hanging by itself," Romana says. "Couldn't they have put it with the other paintings? The space isn't properly optimised." She tosses back her hair, allowing it to drape over one shoulder. "Yes. That spot. There."

"What spot? And art isn't about optimising space; it's about emotion, and passion, and vision."

"Doctor, I meant that spot you're hitting right now." Romana groans when he thrusts into her, then again when he shifts one hand to her cunt, begins circling her clit with a finger, infinitely slowly. "But tell me more about the emotion, passion, and vision."

"Ah, well, you know, they're all quite tricky to measure," he says, pausing to lick sweat from Romana's back, concluding with a kiss below her left shoulderblade. "You can hardly assign quantitative value to these sorts of things."

He is quiet for a moment, concentrating on his motions, all carefully calculated to bring her to climax on his schedule, at his bidding. Of course, Romana is having none of that, and instead squeezes his cock rhythmically, turning his leisurely strokes into something more frantic.

"Vision," he says, breathing heavily, "vision is something I should hardly have to explain to a fellow Time Lord."

"Mmm." Romana nods, covers the hand on her cunt with one of her own, forces quicker movements in a broader pattern.

"And emotion, and passion ..." The Doctor's voice trails off. Romana squeezes him again, and suddenly his schedule flies completely out the window, along with his composure. His hips buck against her only a few more times before he comes, Romana following along soon afterwards.

She crawls forward a step when he softens, then lies on the floor next to him, rubbing her sore knees.

"You don't really need me to explain emotion and passion, do you?" he asks, nuzzling her neck.

"Just testing," she murmurs. "As demonstrations go, that was an admirable job."

"Marvellous."

"Yes," Romana replies. "Absolutely marvellous."


	23. Any Old Place I Can Hang My Hat Is Home Sweet Home To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Doctor/Donna - sex on the Planet of the Hats.

A brief holiday on Millinaria, Planet of the Hats, had seemed like such a good idea at the time. A pleasant, uncomplicated, even relaxing diversion, although they'd unexpectedly had to save the Central Hat Repository from a crippling invasion of giant moths.

Fucking Donna Noble on a giant, multicoloured pile of cashmere berets, however, had _not_ been part of the plan.

As last-minute adjustments to his schedule went, the Doctor had certainly had worse. In fact, it wasn't so much the activity that he objected to — that was going just swimmingly, especially when Donna did that humming thing with her lips — no, it was the surprise that was an issue. Donna had never given any indication that she'd been interested in him, and for his part, he'd always been careful and discreet about stealing glances at her magnificent breasts. Mostly, anyway.

How could he have possibly known she had a hat fetish? Yet nearly the instant they'd stepped out of the TARDIS into a crowd of people wearing hats of all sorts, her cheeks had gone pink, her breathing had quickened, and the Doctor's remarkable sense of taste had detected the vaguest musky tang of arousal tiptoeing over from Donna's direction.

And so they were here, on a grateful and moth-free planet, Donna with her mouth wrapped around him, and him with a new appreciation for her very lively tongue. He felt some kind of vibrato, and then more suction, and then the soft slinkiness of a beret being rubbed across his backside and over his balls, and while he was certain that Time Lords weren't supposed to whimper quite like that, at least there was no one left to chastise him about it.

Donna released him from her mouth, wriggled back up beside him, and smirked. "Enjoying this, spaceman? Always knew you had to be a bit of a pervert."

"Says the woman who dragged me over here by the lapels when she spotted a gross of herringbone trilbys." He paused to pay closer attention to Donna's breasts, round and plush and very much in need of a thorough inspection from his tongue. Meanwhile, Donna hiked her leg over his hipbone and guided his cock inside her.

Well, that would do, too.

He tried to start slowly, but Donna only clutched more firmly at his arse, panting in his ear, urging him on. Her body tasted of sweat and the occasional cashmere fibre, and the harder he drove her into the hats, the louder she moaned.

"Donna," he gasped. "We have to be quiet. Someone will hear us."

"I don't care. Just do that thing with your hips again."

"What, this?"

"_Yes,_ that," she said, and moaned again, raking her fingernails down his back.

There was nothing for it. The Doctor grabbed a fuzzy pink beret and stuffed it into Donna's mouth.

She made a muffled little shriek and suddenly ground against him that much more forcefully, over and over again until even her quietest shrieks were probably enough to get them tossed out of the Repository. It wasn't long before she was shaking and clenching around him. He thrust harder, keeping the orgasm rolling through her, then moments later felt his own climax shudder across his body.

They fell apart, the Doctor sprawled on his back, catching his breath; Donna curled beside him, fanning herself with the pink beret.

"You know," he said, "when you handed me that hatbox, oh, so many months ago, you could have warned me."

"What, and spoil all the fun? Besides," she said, flashing him a wink, "you haven't seen what I've got _in_ the hatbox yet, have you?"

"Why don't you show me, Donna?" the Doctor replied, grinning, and helped her to her feet.


	24. Day 10: 04:00pm - 05:00pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor/Chloe O'Brien (from _24_). The Doctor appreciates Chloe's brilliance, and Chloe's happy to find someone on her level.

In Los Angeles, on what would otherwise be an ordinary sun-drenched day, the shadows of Metrapan warships are looming overhead, darkening the streets. Drifting clouds of smoke from burning buildings the Metrapans have bombed obscure the few patches of blue sky visible between their ships.

The citizens, naturally, are in utter panic, shrieking and screaming while they run for cover, abandoning their cars to gridlock. Two women tottering along in ridiculously high heels slam into a thin man in a pinstriped suit, knocking him against a van even as he yells "Don't panic! Everything is under control!"

The Doctor rubs his sore head. "Mostly under control," he grumbles.

If only he could find a computer, he could fix this little invasion problem. The TARDIS is a block away, its entrance blocked by fallen rubble; otherwise, he'd be busy sending the Metrapans back to the Horsehead Nebula instead of failing to avoid collisions with the local population.

But there, across the street at a deserted Starbucks, is a mousy brunette working calmly and intensely at a laptop. She is typing with almost blinding speed and yelling out words the Doctor can't fully make out from where he's standing, something about satellites and sockets and idiots. Oh yes, idiots are definitely involved.

He picks his way through the tightly packed cars, more careful to avoid the pedestrians this time, and stands next to the woman. "Miss, I need to borrow your laptop," he says.

"Like hell you do," she responds, and continues yelling, her voice carrying through a Bluetooth earpiece to who knows where. "Stop arguing with me about protocol and open the goddamned socket, Larry. I'm telling you, I can get the defence satellites back online." More clicking of fingers on keys. "Dammit, Larry, if I had a PIN generator for authentication, I'd use it, but funny, it got blown up _just like my office._ Now, are you going to let me in or not?"

"Don't mind me," the Doctor interjects, aiming the sonic at the laptop. The command line in the woman's terminal window suddenly fills with a welcome message and system prompt in glowing white ASCII text.

The woman looks up at him, her eyes wide and jaw a little slack. "Never mind, Larry," she says. "Some random guy off the street just logged me in. Great security, buddy." She rips off the earpiece and shoves it in a pocket.

"I'm Chloe O'Brian," she says, looking back at the terminal window and typing in commands so fast even the Doctor has problems following along. "You'd better have a good explanation for what you just did."

"Of course I do," he replies. "I'm the Doctor, and I'm extremely clever."

"Yeah, that's not really gonna cut it."

"Miss O'Brian, I take it you work for the government?"

"Yeah," she grunts. "Oh, _dammit._ The entire subnet's down, redundant systems and everything."

"Chloe, I think I can fix this if you'll let me try."

"This laptop is official CTU property. You don't have clearance to work on this system."

The Doctor sighs and rubs his face. "Chloe, Earth is in the middle of an alien invasion, and I've just logged you into your system using a sonically enhanced screwdriver. I think you can assume that's close enough to official clearance."

She eyes him suspiciously but eventually hands over the laptop. "I'm watching you," she says. "Don't try anything funny. I've got a Taser, and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Wouldn't dream of doing anything funny. There's nothing at all funny about a Metrapan invasion. Though have you heard the one where a Metrapan, a Zygon, and a duck walk into a bar?"

"Taser," Chloe reminds him.

"Right."

The Doctor opens a new terminal window and lets the sonic chirp at the laptop for a few seconds. "There we go," he says, and slips on his spectacles to better read the tiny type. "Ever see _Independence Day,_ Chloe?"

"If you're trying to make a parallel between a crappy sci-fi film and this alien invasion, I'm not impressed."

"_Independence Day,_" he murmurs, peering at the text scrolling across the screen, "had that silly plot resolution where Jeff Goldblum uploaded a virus from a Macintosh into the alien mainframes. Completely unrealistic, of course. Any ship that easily defeated would have had to have been running Windows Vista."

"What did I say that sounded like 'please tell me all about this'?"

The Doctor barrels on. "But as an offensive tactic, a virus is a marvellous idea, if you've got time to write one. Which I don't. Though you could, I'll wager."

She snorts. "Maybe."

"Fortunately, we don't need a virus, because as it happens, the Metrapans are the worst programmers in the galaxy. The fact that their ships lift off the ground at all is miraculous. And so," he says, pressing a last few keys, then lifting his hands from the laptop with a flourish, "all we have to do is take advantage of their persistent failure to trap for zero-division errors."

He looks up at the sky. The lights on the ships whirring above suddenly go dark, and the energy beams they've been firing periodically sputter out midstream.

"You're kidding me," Chloe says.

"I'm not."

"They're really so stupid they forget to do zero-division checks? And you just wrote an exploit for that?"

"Yes, I did," he preens.

"That's really hot."

"What?"

"You heard me. That's really hot." And with that, Chloe grabs the Doctor by the tie, pulls him forward, and kisses him soundly.

"Oh," he says when she relinquishes him. "Hot. Yes. Rather."

* * *

The Starbucks is empty, all the patrons and staff having fled at the first sign of invasion, which is how the Doctor finds himself lying on a scratchy, bright orange couch while Chloe rocks above him and begs him to tell her more about the alien invasions he's foiled.

"There was that time I saved the world with a satsuma," he pants. "Do you suppose you could —"

Chloe rocks a little faster, squeezing him with her thighs. "This?"

"Yes, that." He groans and arches up into her. "And then ... then there was the time I telepathically hacked some communications satellites ..."

"I don't think so," Chloe laughs. She moves the hand he's resting on her hip to her breast and moans when he takes the cue, teasing her nipple with his thumb.

"Really, I did!"

"You can't hack a computer with your brain. No one could." She shifts slightly on top of him, leaning down to adjust her angle, and soon after he slides his tongue inside her mouth, tasting adrenaline and coffee, he feels her tighten around him as she comes.

Her nails scrape down his chest to draw out a whimper from him, and he thrusts up into her again, harder. "I can believe the dividing by zero thing," she says, then quirks a smile at him when she reaches behind herself to fondle his balls. "But you're lying about the rest of it." She squeezes him in her hand, just enough to let him know she's in control, and he groans even more loudly than before.

"I'm not, I'm not, I wouldn't ..." he gasps, and then a finger slides back even farther when Chloe sits up to resume rocking against him, and he's totally lost. His hips buck twice, and he falls back onto the couch, breathing heavily.

He lifts a hand to Chloe's face, pushing back a sweaty strand of brown hair. "Chloe, you're a smart woman," he says. "Surely you must believe there's more out there than you can possibly know."

"That doesn't mean you can talk to computers."

"But if I could?"

She drops down on top of him, propping herself up on his chest with her forearms. "Then I'd want you to teach me how to do it."

"Chloe O'Brien, I'd be delighted to try. Tell me ... what would you say if I offered you a ride in a dimensionally transcendent time machine?"

"Besides that you're totally full of it? I'd want to know how you got it bigger on the inside than it is on the outside."

The grin on his face could illuminate the entire store. "Come with me," he says, "and I'll be happy to explain."


	25. Marking Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Master/Lucy Saxon-who-is-secretly-fobwatched-Romana.

"The sample chapters of your autobiography were remarkable, Mr. Saxon," Lucy Cole says. "You seem like quite the renaissance man. But I'm afraid given the unfortunate trend toward falsifying personal biographies, our solicitors have asked us to give your book very careful scrutiny."

There. It's done. Lucy's palms are still sweating; her hands feel stuck to the oxblood leather of her chair.

Despite his rumoured temper, Harold Saxon takes Lucy's news with equanimity. "I would expect nothing less, Lucy," he says. He flashes her a smile — or perhaps more of a smirk, always hard to tell the difference with him — and steeples his fingers together.

Lucy's throat is dry. She unsticks a hand and reaches for her coffee cup, but discovers it empty. With nothing to hold on to, her hand begins to twitch, scrabbling across the desk surface for something familiar and comforting. It settles on the paperweight she keeps on top of the inbox pile; she rubs her thumb across engraved whorls softened by years of soothing nervous tension, and clutches the watch tightly enough to whiten her knuckles.

"No need to get upset, Lucy. Your fact-checkers will find I've nothing to hide."

"I ... I should hope not, Mr. Saxon."

"Harold, please."

"Harold," she nods, and slackens her grip on the watch. "I'm sorry. I should have realised you'd understand. You've always been very ... perceptive."

Another half-smile, half-smirk. "I do my best." He leans closer to the desk. "Lucy, do you mind my asking what you've got in your hand?"

Lucy blushes, but extends her hand, opening it palm-up to expose the antique pewter fobwatch. "My father gave me this. It's broken — it doesn't open — so I've always used it as a paperweight. And as a bit of a security blanket," she adds, embarrassed.

Harold Saxon folds his hands over hers, covering the watch. His touch is surprisingly cool, the temperature of an autumn breeze, not so cold as to cause a chill, just warm enough to be relaxing.

"It's quite beautiful," he says. "And so are you, Lucy."

* * *

After Lucy leaves the job at the publishing house to devote herself to Harold and his political ambitions, she brings the paperweight home. Harold insists it have a place of honour on her nightstand.

"It's pretty, and it makes you happy," he says. "You're pretty, and you make _me_ happy. We should all be together." Sometimes Lucy catches him rubbing the watch with his fingertips himself, feeling across it as if he's reading Braille, and whispering a word to himself, multiple syllables, hushed and peculiar.

In bed, he's like no other lover she's had. Creative, exciting, daring ... Lucy tries things with Harold she's never even heard of, simply because it pleases him, and when he's pleased, her whole universe is filled with sunshine.

She lets him tie her to the bed face-down, spread-eagled, each limb attached to a bedpost with a woven nylon strap, while Harold fucks her hard from behind, one hand squeezing her left breast, the other pulling her head back by the hair, exposing her neck for him to lick and suck and bite. He withdraws before coming, then kneels at the head of the bed, sliding his knees under Lucy's shoulders to support her upper torso so she can draw him into her mouth, tasting the tang of herself on him mixed with the salt of his semen.

She lets him sit in the Pierre Deux chair, lazily masturbating, while she uses her favorite dildo and vibrator on herself. He likes seeing how many times she can climax before he can.

She lets him fuck her in the coat closet in the middle of one of his fundraisers. He'd told her not to wear knickers, so she'd known he was planning this, but it doesn't make the fuck any less arousing, and she has to muffle herself against his suit lapel to keep from screaming when she comes.

"That's it," Harold says, a moment before finishing himself. "My good girl. My beautiful blonde girl."

* * *

He takes her to Utopia. Everything changes, and not just because Lucy discovers that Harold was lying about having heart arrhythmia.

He tells her, "We were meant to be together, you and I. We'll rule it all together. And someday you'll understand — someday you'll really understand why no one else but you could be by my side."

* * *

In the year on the Valiant, the Master begins to stray. He has every young, pretty woman — and man — in the world at his disposal, and takes full advantage of the situation. But he always comes back to Lucy.

One night, so drunk he can barely do more than paw at her breasts, he calls her Romana.

She lets him bounce away on top of her until he finally comes and collapses, snoring, beside her; then she curls up in a ball and cries softly, clutching her pocketwatch.

* * *

The instant Lucy decides to shoot the Master, she feels a sudden clarity of purpose, as if this were a moment for which she'd been preparing for years; a long game of planning and waiting for the right action, the obvious solution to cut through the complications.

In the chaos following his death, she slips away to the bedroom they shared, swapping her gown for more practical clothing and taking nothing but the watch, which she flips from hand to hand while she works out her escape route.

On the last flip, from right to left, she presses too hard on the watch's stem, and rather unexpectedly, the case opens.

Everything changes again.

* * *

Romana waits until the Doctor has gone before paying her last respects to her husband. Harold Saxon: charmer, schemer, lover, murderer, Time Lord. She isn't ready to deal with another one of those just yet.

She scuffs her way through the dust and ashes of the quarry and finds the Master's ring at her feet. A souvenir, and knowing its owner, surely one that has greater purpose than mere ornamentation. Best to keep it safe with herself for now.

After all, she might need him again. Someday.


	26. Three Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donna/Eight (using plot twist of Journey's End).

**Hallowe'en**

The first time Donna Noble meets John Smith, he's at Nerys' fancy dress party, rifling through her kitchen cabinets in search of Dijon mustard.

"Hello," he says, whipping open a faux-oak door, spinning the lazy susan inside, and pulling out bottle after bottle of useless condiments. "Blimey, how much brown sauce does one person need?"

"No accounting for taste," sniffs Donna. "Who the hell are you, by the way?"

"I'm ... John Smith. I'm the plumber."

"The plumber. Who turns up on a Saturday night to fix the sink? In fancy dress?"

The man slams the lazy susan door shut and begins opening upper cabinets, muttering "mustard, mustard, mustard" to himself.

"Oi, sunshine! I'm talking to you!" Donna grabs the man's arm. He turns to face her, slate-blue eyes meeting her own, and Donna finds herself startled by the way the man looks a little desperate, a little tender, all at the same time. She softens. "You really need to ransack my friend's kitchen to fix the plumbing?"

"Mustard," he explains. "There's something in the pipes, something that shouldn't be there, and the mustard will ... let's just say it'll set things right."

Donna reaches for the breadbox, slides open its louvred door, and hands Smith a large jar of Grey Poupon. "Don't ask why Nerys keeps it here. That girl's a bit weird sometimes."

The man bursts into a giddy smile. He's smaller and thinner than the blokes Donna is usually attracted to, but there's something compelling about him: a sort of gentle, harmless lunacy.

"Ah, wonderful, marvellous!" he cries. "Thank you, miss ..."

"Donna. Donna Noble."

"Thank you, Donna. And might I add, I rather like the toga."

  
**New Year's Eve**

The second time Donna meets John Smith, she's huddled in her parka along the North Embankment, waiting for the fireworks to begin. The crowd is packed tight against her, but somehow there's still room for a man in a bottle-green Edwardian waistcoat to shove his way through, a tremendous grin stretching across his face, while he shouts "I did it! I did it!"

"Did _what,_ you nutter?" shouts back Donna, and suddenly recognises the man who stops dead in front of her.

"Donna!" he cries, then grabs her face with both hands and kisses her exuberantly. "I did it! They're gone!"

Donna gapes at the man and tries to decide whether slapping, yelling, or kissing him again is the right course of action. By the time she's made up her mind, he's pushed his way back into the crowd, calling out "Sorry! Have to go! There's always less time than you think!"

Sure enough, by the time Donna can push aside enough revellers to follow, Smith is long gone.

Damn. And he'd been quite a good kisser, too.

  
**Valentine's Day**

The third time Donna meets him, she's leaning against a bridge railing, watching the ripples along the Thames, when Smith sidles up to her, disturbing a rather pleasant sulk she'd been having about being alone on Valentine's Day.

"How many fancy dress parties do you go to?" she asks him. "And it might do to rent a new costume next time around."

"I'm very attached to this one," he replies.

They fall silent for a while. A tourist boat sparkling with fairy lights and dancing couples in glittering outfits drifts by.

"Okay, what is it this time?" Donna finally asks. "Chutney emergency?"

"No," Smith chuckles. "Not exactly." He shifts awkwardly next to her. "There's some trouble ... back where I'm from. I'm going to have to go home soon to deal with it, and I don't know if I'll ever make it back. Thought I'd spend some time saying goodbye to my favourite city."

"Hell of a night for a breakup."

"Indeed," he says. "Tell me, Donna. Is there somewhere you've always wanted to visit, but never been?"

"Oh, I don't know ... Manhattan? Australia, maybe? Or China; yes, that's it, China. I want to walk along the Great Wall. See where the Chinese fought off the Mongol hordes."

"Come on," he says. "We'll go there right now."

Donna laughs. "You're bonkers. I can't afford a flight to China. And I don't even have my passport with me."

"You don't need your passport. I've got my own transportation. Let's go travelling, just you and me."

"Nah," she says, rubbing his velvet lapel between thumb and forefinger. "Tell you what, though. I've got a mate working front desk at one of those posh boutique hotels. We could get a room."

He opens his mouth slightly, about to reply, but Donna kisses him before he can say anything, pressing herself to him until she feels his arms fold around her back and his lips part against hers.

She pulls away from the kiss, but not from his lips, and murmurs, "Come on. Last night in London? Valentine's Day? And a gorgeous woman ready to shag your brains out? I know what I'd do, if I were you."

"I suppose China will still be there tomorrow," he says softly, and Donna kisses him again.

* * *

It takes forever to get Smith undressed. Waistcoat, vest, cravat, shirt, undershirt, boots ... at least the trousers have a zip, which Donna nearly tears in her eagerness. Smith helps her out of her clothing, distracting himself with kisses along the rim of Donna's bra cups, and distracting Donna when her nipples are finally exposed and he can draw one into his mouth to tease and taste. He licks his way across her breasts, dropping kisses down the centre line of her chest, down further, until his hands grip her fleshy thighs and he lowers his mouth to her cunt.

Donna gasps, scrapes her fingers through Smith's hair, curly and rough. She bends her knees to allow him better access, and her toes curl tight against the bedspread when he lavishes the same attention on her clit he'd been applying to her nipples. Whatever he's doing with his lips, his tongue, it's utterly magnificent, even if the way he's taking his time with her is utterly frustrating; spiralling her closer and closer, then withdrawing to lighter touches when he feels her tense up.

Much as she wants him to continue, Donna finally decides she wants his cock inside her that much more, and tells him so. It's torture, feeling his lips pull away from her cunt, but when he sinks inside her and she can wrap her legs around his bony hips, it's worth it.

His thrusts are slow and leisurely at first, and his lips work their way up from Donna's nipples to her neck, licking and nipping lightly at it while she moans. She twists her head towards him, using one hand to drag him up so she can slide her tongue between his lips, feel the coolness of his mouth against hers. He speeds up a little, bracing himself on one elbow, and twines his other hand in Donna's hair, the tips of his fingers smoothing the fine strands at her temples.

There's a peculiar prickling sensation in the back of Donna's head. It's like déja vu, except instead of seeing herself in bed with Smith, as if it had always been going to happen, she _senses_ it instead, somehow knows it intuitively.

Smith gasps. Donna kisses him more forcefully, tightens her grip around his arse, feels his rhythm begin to stutter; he's closer to coming than he expected, she realises, though whether she's learning this from his motions or the strange feeling in her head, she's not sure.

Quite suddenly, Smith releases his grip on her hair, drawing himself up enough that he can remove Donna's left leg from his body, pushing it back to the bed to adjust the angle. He pumps harder, faster, bringing his hand down to Donna's clit and rubbing it quickly, and all at once the steady pressure buildup Donna's been feeling explodes, firework starbursts just like the night Smith first kissed her. He manages only a few more strokes himself before groaning and pulsing inside her, thrusting twice slowly while he finishes, his eyes closed tight in an unexpected look of pain.

Donna relaxes on the bed, boneless, while Smith gets up to dispose of the condom. It's the best Valentine's Day she's had in a long time, she thinks, maybe ever, so at least she's got that to remember even if this fantastic fuck is a one-time thing.

When Smith returns, he sits on the bed next to Donna, with hunched shoulders and tensed muscles in his back.

"What is it?" she asks.

He doesn't turn to face her when he replies. "It's difficult to explain," he says. "But I think something terrible has happened to you, and it's my fault."

"Don't be silly. I'm perfectly fine. Absolutely lovely right now, in fact."

"Are you, though?" he asks, bitterness creeping into his voice. "I want to believe that, Donna." He finally looks her in the eye, pleading with her. "Tell me you're all right."

Donna strokes his face reassuringly. "Of course I am. Besides, shouldn't I be worrying about you instead of the other way 'round? What's this trouble at home, anyway?"

"I'm afraid it's a very, very long story," he sighs. He rises from the bed and starts putting his clothes back on.

"Don't go yet."

"I've been putting this off long enough as it is," he says. "I can't escape my responsibilities this time."

He finishes buttoning his shirt and dons the waistcoat, then crouches down next to the bed and combs his fingers through Donna's hair, spread across her body in an auburn cascade. "Donna," he says, his voice hushed. "I know I'll see you again someday, and we're going to have the best of times. The most wonderful, glorious times together. And I wish ... I wish we could both remember it."

"What do you mean? There's nothing wrong with my memory."

He kisses her forehead and rises, turning away from her.

"I know," he says. "I know."


	27. Trapped in a Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Donna/Rose - Rose seduces Donna, and the Doctor secretly watches.

"You know what I've always wanted to try?" Rose says. "Being with another woman. I mean, me and Shareen tried kissing once, just to see what it was like, but it was too weird, and we couldn't stop laughing."

The Doctor swallows at least three different responses before responding. "If you ever wanted to try that, you know, that would be okay with me. As long as you told me all about it afterwards."

"Nah, it'll never happen. Though there is this new girl, at work ..."

* * *

The Doctor is in the walk-in closet in the bedroom he shares with Rose, carefully rearranging his trainer collection by colour temperature, when he hears voices floating along the hallway; lively soprano giggling mixed with a different, alto timbre from a second woman, one who sounds terribly, almost frighteningly familiar.

"You sure he won't mind?" asks the second voice, brassy and a little rough, and Rassilon, no, it can't possibly be her, can it?

"Definitely not," replies Rose, her slurred words betraying an evening's worth of drinking. "Mind you, he still wants the play-by-play ..."

A palm slaps loudly against the bedroom door, pushing it open, and the Doctor, suddenly and simultaneously terrified of being caught and fascinated by what he suspects is about to happen, slides shut the closet's pocket door to conceal himself. He leaves a small crack of space, just enough to see and hear what's going on without being detectable himself.

And that's how he confirms that Rose's Torchwood colleague, the one she'd been fantasising about, is this universe's version of Donna Noble.

Now, of course, he couldn't look away even if he tried.

The women sit on the edge of the bed, knees together, shoulders straight, watching each other nervously.

"Look," Donna says, "I might have stretched the truth a bit back in the pub. Get three cosmos down me and I just can't shut my big gob. So ... I should probably tell you I haven't done this, either."

Rose leans over and cups Donna's cheek. "That's okay. How hard can it be?" She kisses Donna then, a light, hesitant touch at first; but Donna's eyes flutter shut and she kisses back hard, tangling a hand in Rose's hair and pulling her down to the bed.

Crouched in the shadows of the closet, the Doctor bites his lower lip to stifle a groan. It could be a very long night for him inside that tiny room.

When he stands up and gets a better view of Donna and Rose wrapped around each other, Rose nipping at Donna's neck while Donna begins to undo the buttons on Rose's blouse, the Doctor decides he's prepared to stay in that closet as long as necessary.

* * *

Rose removes Donna's bra with the ease of someone accustomed to wearing one herself, and seals her lips around one nipple the instant she tosses away the garment. Her hands caress Donna's breasts, kneading at them while Donna moans happily.

"Oh, whatever you do, don't stop," she says. "They're always so sore after a day stuck in that thing."

Rose relinquishes Donna's nipple but continues her massage. "You've got gorgeous tits, Donna. Shame to lock them up like that." Her tongue slides out between her lips, circles the rosy peak of Donna's breast slowly while Donna teases Rose's breasts with the tip of her thumb.

Donna's hand glides from Rose's chest across the smooth curve of her waist to press into her arse. Rose murmurs something in approval, her lips muffled by Donna's plushness, and then makes a louder, more obviously pleased noise when Donna works her thigh between Rose's legs.

Inside the closet, the Doctor moves his right hand closer to his own legs and wonders how long he can stand there without touching himself.

The answer, as it turns out, is three minutes and twenty-seven seconds, the exact amount of time it takes Rose to reach for the zip on Donna's trousers and slide her palm into Donna's knickers.

* * *

Jeans and slacks fall to the side of the bed, and now Rose's hand moves in leisurely strokes while Donna gasps and moans; Donna rubs her thigh against Rose's cunt while Rose squeezes her legs tight and pumps her hips.

The Doctor's hand moves as slowly as Rose's. He wants to move faster, so much faster, but if he loses control now, he'll knows he'll be left limp and wanting right when things in the bedroom really start to get interesting.

Rose does something with her hand, something he can't quite see from his angle, and Donna makes a high-pitched noise the Doctor's heard her make before, usually when she's startled. Except in this case, she follows it with pleading for Rose to keep going, a little harder, a little lower down, and the Doctor can't help but speed his own movements as well.

Donna's pleadings begin to fade in favour of long gasps for air. She writhes beneath Rose's hand, her ginger hair tossing wildly over the pillows, the muscles in her thigh visibly clenching. Rose's motions speed up; she raises her head to drive her tongue between Donna's lips, and Donna grabs her, pulling Rose on top of her to give her a better angle.

Rose's arm twitches rapidly. She raises her head, and now the Doctor can barely see Donna's face, nearly as red as her hair, as her mouth drops open and she makes a shrieking, sobbing cry, her body shaking.

The Doctor stills his hand. His cock is throbbing and beginning to drip with liquid, and he realises he's let himself get too far along. He slumps against the side of the closet, Rose's jacket collection brushing his shoulders, and tries to catch his breath.

"Oh my God," he hears Donna say. "That was bloody amazing."

"You certainly sounded like you enjoyed yourself," Rose replies, a trace of smugness in her voice.

"Oh, yeah. Oh, God, yeah." Donna pauses. "But you ... you haven't ..."

"Mmm, not quite yet. Was getting close."

"You want me to ...?"

"Well, I was wondering if you wanted to ... try, um ... "

"Does seem like the obvious thing to try, doesn't it?"

"I'm up for it if you are."

"Just try and stop me," Donna says, and the Doctor hears the sheets rustling, the bed creaking, but can't tell what the women are doing while he's got a faceful of midnight blue leather.

As quietly as he can, he pushes the jackets aside and resumes his position by the door. Through the cracked-open space he's left, he sees a strange tangle of limbs and hair, and it takes him a moment to realise the two women have their mouths buried in each other's cunts.

He nearly falls backwards into the leather jackets, but grabs onto the door jamb at the last minute to stop himself.

Even if he couldn't see what was going on, the noises alone would be enough to get him off. Soft suckling sounds followed by breathy moans, gasps, and whimpers; the steady creaking of the bedframe; longer, sharper cries muffled by the women's bodies. The Doctor gives up on all pretence of trying to hold back and simply pumps his cock, up and down, faster and faster, bracing himself against the jamb with his other arm.

He's so close now, so very close. He clenches his eyes shut, stroking himself hard and tight, pausing every so often to run his fingers over his balls.

Outside the closet, the noises continue. Rose makes a swift series of sighs whose sound he recognises, and though he can't see her, he can imagine her face: the way her head will be thrown back; the sweaty strands of blonde hair moulded against her cheek; the glazed and distant look in her eyes when she finally opens them again.

He moans as quietly as he can, jerking his hand back and forth, and at last his cock begins to pulse, hot stickiness dripping onto his hand.

He's still standing in the same position several minutes later, breathing hard and braced against the door, when he hears Donna come again.

* * *

After Donna leaves, and Rose disappears into the shower, the Doctor slips on his pyjamas and slides into bed. He's sitting there working a crossword when Rose emerges, steaming and pink, and squeaks in surprise to see him.

"When ... when did you get home?" she asks.

He taps the end of his Biro against the puzzle several times, tries out his best serious-and-thoughtful expression, and utterly fails to keep a straight face.

Rose puts her hands on her hips. "You were here, weren't you? Hiding under the bed? In the closet?"

"Maybe."

"That's not an answer," she says, but she crawls into bed, curling up next to him.

"It's an answer," the Doctor replies, one hand creeping down Rose's body towards the tender flesh between her legs. "It just wasn't the answer you wanted."

"Bastard," she says, and gasps when he slowly, carefully begins to rub at her.

"Yeah," he says, "But just because I saw nearly everything, that doesn't mean I still don't want to hear about it."

Rose sighs, stretches out against him, and ruffles his hair. "Just keep doing what you're doing," she says, "and maybe I'll tell you a story."


	28. Helping Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Ten/Rose/Hand!Ten - Rose bondage with blindfold, doesn't know which Doctor is doing what.

The blindfold drops like a curtain over Rose's eyes. All she feels is the elastic strap tugging on her hair, the plush faux-fur lining blanketing the upper half of her face. She's opened the TARDIS doors to the wide reaches of space and seen more light than this; everything is blotted-out and black.

She can smell the musky sweat of the two Doctors, can feel pairs of hands lifting her arms above her head, binding her wrists tight to the headboard with something silky, but strong: a wound kerchief, perhaps, or more likely, a patterned tie. She winces; lying on her back with arms outstretched isn't the most comfortable position, and her lovers must sense this, because they help her shift her body until she's leaning on two pillows, elbows out and wrists resting on her head.

She can smell the Doctors, and she can feel them, and she can hear them when they whisper to each other in sentences that neither needs to complete: _Would you like to ...? I think it's your turn for ... . Maybe we should ...?_ But she cannot see them. Four sets of long, delicate fingers trace patterns around her breasts, slide into her mouth for her to suckle, massage her calves and feet and inner thigh and yet never quite seem to touch her where she's increasingly desperate for them to touch. She strains against her bonds, wriggling and gasping when they hit some particularly sensitive spot with lips and teeth, flushing red with embarrassment and arousal when she hears them chuckling at her struggles.

"You wanted this, Rose. You wanted us," says one of them, pressing kisses along the curve of her neck.

The other one relinquishes her nipple, blowing tickling breaths across it, and adds, "And this way, you can't play favourites."

Then, at last, Rose feels fingers part the wet folds of her cunt, slipping down and dipping inside her, though whose fingers, and how many, are impossible to tell. She arches her hips. The Doctors continue teasing her, slow strokes alternating with quick ones, alternating with fingers being removed entirely or just the frustrating scrape of a fingertip brushing her clit. One of the men kisses her, driving his tongue between her lips for a swift taste, then pulling back when Rose starts to moan again.

_Not yet,_ she hears. _She's not ... I want to ... you go first._

The fingers between her legs pause for a moment while one of the men adjusts himself to straddle Rose's lap. Bony knees trap her thighs, and then a hand gently pushes her head forward.

"Open your mouth," one of them says.

Rose complies, first feeling another finger for her to suck on, then the fleshy, salty head of a man's cock being guided in, and now, at least, Rose has something she can control. She lets her tongue swirl around him, relishes the sounds of pleasure this anonymous Doctor makes in response, bobs her head forward as much as she can to take more of him in.

The tip of her tongue traces his cock, trying to gauge his pulse: one beat? Two? Rose counts as carefully as she can, but suddenly the fingers between her legs begin to dance again, and her concentration splinters.

The thick warmth of the man thrusting into her mouth. The touches between her legs that set her nerves tingling. The soft caress of the blindfold and the strain of her hands against their bonds. Everything combines into a single hypnotic and peculiarly peaceful rhythm.

When the man in her mouth finally comes, exhaling a hot rush of breath and tangling his fingers hard in her hair, Rose drinks in every drop, licking him gently while he softens and releasing his cock with a kiss. There's a sudden weight against her on the bed as this Doctor swings his leg back over her and collapses at her side.

_Your turn ... she's almost ... let's try ...,_ Rose hears, and the fingers inside her slip out, another man's cock slipping in to replace them.

The hypnosis returns. A smooth and powerful push inside her. The steady pressure of a thumb against her clit, driving her further and further towards climax. Short puffs of air from the exertion of the man above her.

Rose relaxes her arms against her head and closes her eyes. She doesn't need the blindfold anymore. She doesn't need the knotted tie binding her to the bed.

All she needs is the Doctors, the two of them. She needs them filling her; fucking her; possessing her; and telling her she's theirs, every day, every time they're together, in their every sideways glance and tiny motion.

All she needs is them, she thinks, and comes so hard she screams. All she needs is them. Forever.


	29. Tethered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Four/Rose. Bondage with the scarf.

"This is wrong. It's all wrong. I'm too early." Rose can't stop turning in place, taking in everything that's different about this TARDIS: the sterile white walls and floor, the hard-edged console, the viewscreen opposite where she's standing. Yet so much is the same — the room is still honeycombed with roundels, and the console still looks like a half-finished mess of blinking lights and partially stripped wires.

And there's the Doctor, looking at her as curiously as she's looking at her surroundings. A younger Doctor Rose recognises from photographs, though she's not sure which one. Even so, the mass of curly hair and the preposterously long striped scarf are unmistakable.

"In my experience, 'early' is a relative concept," says the Doctor. "You're probably wondering 'relative to _what,_ exactly,' but that's a much longer conversation."

Rose chuckles. "Well, at least now I'm sure I found the right man."

"Just a moment ago you said everything was wrong."

"It is. Oh, trust me to cock it up completely. Sixty minutes before Control's going to drag me back, and I find you, but you're not you. Not the you I was looking for."

"I see," says the Doctor, and rocks back and forth on his heels thoughtfully. "And this other me, he looks like ..."

"Not telling you that," she says, but quirks her head at him, noticing something long-lost and familiar. "Funny, though. Your eyes ..."

She touches his face gently with the tips of her fingers, brushing aside chestnut curls that have strayed too close to his cheek. "Your eyes ... they were just like this when I first met you. I'm so used to the brown, now — never thought I'd see these again."

The Doctor doesn't shy away from her touch, which is both surprising and reassuring. When he speaks, his voice is soft and low, but all Rose can concentrate on is the ice-blue of his eyes. "What are you doing here, Miss ...?"

"I can't find him," she says. She sucks in a breath. "Will you take me to him?"

"The TARDIS is in no condition to travel right now, I'm afraid. You caught me mid-repair." The Doctor covers Rose's hand with his, interlocking their fingers and moving the hand from his cheek, but he doesn't let go. "I'm sorry, I must ask: exactly what sort of relationship do you have with me?"

Rose bites down on her lower lip and finally tears her gaze away from the Doctor's eyes. "It's hard to explain. But I need him. I need you."

"I'm not him yet."

"You will be," Rose says, and makes her decision. "And until then, I'm gonna take what I can get."

She startles him with her kiss, but it doesn't take long before he's pulling her close against him and kissing back just as forcefully.

He always was a quick learner, Rose thinks.

* * *

Rose drags him down the hallway by his scarf, tossing a loop of it around her neck and walking backwards, giggling and holding the scarf ends in her hands like reins. Halfway to his bedroom, the Doctor stops, pressing her against the roundelled wall to kiss her again, savouring the way she slides her tongue over his, the way she pulls back to lick his lips and nip at his throat.

When she flicks his reins and draws him further along the hallway, the Doctor says, "I could have sworn my bedroom was on the opposite side of the ship this morning."

Rose sparkles a smile at him. "The TARDIS likes me," she says. "My name is Rose."

* * *

The Doctor curls the end of his scarf around Rose's wrists, twisting it into a knot to bind her to the bed.

"Tighter," she says, and he adds another knot.

He winds the scarf around her head, folding it in thirds as a blindfold, and drags its rough woolen edge across the soft skin at her neck. Rose shivers, taking in a short, quick breath and licking her lips.

"Lift your arms," he says. Rose complies, the scarf end tugging her wrists close to a bedpost. She wraps her hands around the lacquered wood.

The scarf continues looping over and around her naked body. The Doctor is cool against her back, pressing kisses into her shoulderblades and tickling her with the scarf's tassels. Rose arches her back when the scarf, as well as a hand, slide between her legs for the first time.

"You're tied to me now, yeah?" she asks, sighing as the Doctor slips a finger beneath the scarf and inside her cunt, warm and wet.

"You're not going anywhere," he murmurs. "I can promise you that." Another finger joins the first and slowly starts to move.

Rose shifts her leg backwards, over the Doctor's, feeling knitted fabric looped around his thigh as confirmation he'd been telling the truth. She moans when his fingers find a steady rhythm, and louder still when he brushes his thumb across her clit, flicking it slowly in time with the motions of his fingers.

"Don't ... don't let me go," she pants.

The Doctor wriggles an arm beneath her, reaching for her breasts and rubbing lightly, pinching her nipples. "No," he says. "No, of course not." And then Rose feels him remove his fingers from his cunt and thrust his way inside her, shallow at first, then deeper when he grips her thigh for leverage.

The scarf's stitches scratch at her, itchy little pinpricks on tender skin. But when Rose cries out, it's in pleasure and not in pain, the scarf's presence a tether to the Doctor instead of a distraction. Even if she can't see him, she can feel him surrounding her, inside her, his skin warming from her body, his tongue lapping sweat from her neck. Her bonds tauten when he withdraws, preparing to thrust again, and when he plunges into her, the knitted fabric he's looped around himself presses hard against her.

At last he shudders stiffly at her back, slumping next to her, releasing his grip on her thigh, and fussing with the scarf in a way Rose realises, to her disappointment, means he's unwinding it from himself. "No," she whimpers. "Not yet."

"Shh," says the Doctor, and then Rose feels the scarf loop around and around her leg, and hears the Doctor tie it to a post at the foot of the bed. She's now spread diagonally across the sheets, immobilized by knitted wool, and the Doctor grasps a hank at her knee.

"I told you I wouldn't let go. Besides, we're not finished here," he adds, and Rose bucks against his lips when she feels them seal around her clit. She's at his mercy, bound so tightly she can only flex one leg while the Doctor's tongue and fingers explore inside her. He doesn't tease her for long, the thrashes of her body giving away just how close she is to coming; he simply licks broad strokes around her clit, then short flicks across it, until the pleasure overtakes Rose so quickly she has to beg him to stop, suddenly too sensitive to be touched.

The Doctor prises off Rose's blindfold, and she blinks while her eyes adjust to the light, dim as it is.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

"My dear girl," he replies, "I think I should be thanking you. Before you showed up, I had a long afternoon of soldering planned, and this was considerably more enjoyable."

Rose grins at him. "Better have been."

There's another prickling on her skin now, more electric than the touch of the scarf, a tingling sensation she recognises with dismay. "Oh. Oh no. How long have I been here?"

"About an hour. Fifty-eight minutes and thirty-two seconds, to be precise."

"Oh, _bugger._ Naked it is, then." Rose peers down at her bended knee and can just barely begin to make out the folds of the blanket through her thigh. The prickling intensifies, and she knows she's only got seconds left. "Please, Doctor. Please, tell yourself — your tenth self — tell him I'm ..."

Rose fades away before she can finish. She leaves behind her favourite leather jacket and a striped scarf, once tightly knotted, now slack in overlapping folds, upon the rumpled sheets.


	30. The Pursuit of Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Arthur Eddington/John Smith - gentleness. They disagree about spanking. Arthur shows John it's not necessary.

Smith and Eddington have been friends almost from the moment Smith arrived at Farringham, where Eddington delivered a guest lecture during Smith's first week.

"I teach history, you know, and yet I find myself utterly fascinated by the stars," Smith said to him, "as if I were born to know everything about them."

"That makes two of us," Eddington had replied, and since then they have been meeting weekly at the Observatory at ridiculous hours of the night, sharing peeks into the telescope and mugs of tea, and discussing everything from Eddington's faith to Smith's vivid imagination.

"Of course corporal punishment isn't necessary," Eddington says, responding to Smith's story about a lad he'd had to discipline earlier in the day. "For purely experimental purposes, let's assume you are a troublesome boy."

Smith gives him a half-smile. "I may have merited a caning or two in my youth."

"That's the point," sighs Eddington. "Caning is extreme and inappropriate punishment. Nonviolent measures — for example, locking you in your room for a time, or depriving you of supper — might have had an similar effect on your behaviour."

"I very much doubt that. I could be most difficult when I set my mind to it."

"That's quite apparent," Eddington replies wryly. "But here, allow me to demonstrate."

He stands behind Smith and gingerly wraps his arm around the other man's chest. Smith stiffens slightly at the touch.

"I hope you don't mind," Eddington says, "but this particular experiment requires close contact."

Smith swallows hard and tries not to lean back into his friend's embrace. "Not at all," he says. "After all, this is in the pursuit of science." Takes a deep breath, then another. "And what specific form of punishment were you planning to demonstrate?"

Eddington's other hand comes to rest flat against Smith's stomach, and Smith's eyelids drift shut at the touch.

"Delayed gratification," Eddington says.

The two of them stand intertwined, immobile, Smith desperately trying to keep his breathing calm and quiet, even as he senses Eddington's heart fluttering against his back. He wonders if he's misinterpreting his friend's actions, if perhaps he's simply stumbled upon a bizarre but otherwise perfectly innocent Quaker ritual; and then Eddington's hand shifts, slowly but unmistakably, to the waistband of Smith's trousers.

"And ... in this hypothetical situation ... what did I do to deserve such punishment?" Smith asks, his voice shaky.

Eddington's fingers work the buckle of Smith's belt, sliding leather through loops and clasp. His breath is hot against Smith's neck, prickling even the hairs below Smith's starched collar. "It hardly matters. But if you must know" — and here he pauses, index and middle finger drumming, insistent and maddening, against the button of Smith's fly — "we could say you weren't minding your class lessons."

"Yes," hums Smith, wriggling under Eddington's touch, which still hasn't quite reached low enough, despite his body's best efforts to meet his friend halfway.

Several more agonising minutes pass before Eddington pops the fly button and begins to drop his hand further into Smith's trousers. Smith strains against him.

"Please," he says. "Please, Arthur."

Eddington ignores him, leaving the lower hand where it is, though the other creeps inside Smith's suit jacket, warm and firm upon Smith's chest. He's holding Smith so closely now that Smith can feel pressure hardening against his buttocks, and when he shifts his position slightly in the hopes of moving his cock closer to Eddington's hand, he hears the other man suck in a breath.

Finally, finally, there's the faintest brush of a fingertip over the head of Smith's cock, then another, and when Eddington at last wraps his hand around him, finger by finger, Smith groans so loudly he worries one of the night porters will think something is wrong.

He sinks back into Arthur's embrace, lets the other man stroke his cock, steadily and with care. Tilting his neck to the side, he finds Eddington's head bowed, his eyes shut, and Smith leans over to kiss him, soft lips parting to taste the other man's tongue.

He rubs against his friend, back and forth, and feels him begin to thrust his hips into Smith's buttocks, hesitant at first, then faster when Smith pushes back. Eddington's hand is still working at Smith's cock, so hard and thick and almost, almost there, all of Smith's muscles tensed and ready for release.

He grinds against Eddington harder, sucking Arthur's tongue into his mouth, and suddenly his friend moans once and lets his rhythm falter, his hand tightening and trembling around Smith's cock. But he keeps going, kissing Smith back even harder now, until finally Smith feels a rush of pleasure surging through his body, tingling pinpricks of starlight in his vision.

Eddington's arms drop away from Smith, who pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes away the white stains from his grey wool jacket. Eddington's clothing is less easily cleaned; there's a moist spot at the placket of his trousers, and Smith touches him there fondly.

"You were correct, Arthur," he says. "That was a remarkably effective technique."

Eddington smiles shyly and blushes. "Your headmaster may not find it appropriate to practise on the students."

"True, but even adults make mistakes. And we deserve to be punished," murmurs Smith, and kisses Arthur again. "Often, if necessary."


	31. A Dream of a Thousand Pterosaurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack/Myfanwy fisting, while Neil Gaiman watches. One line blatantly stolen from Lawrence Miles, but he was asking for it. (See [here](http://community.livejournal.com/sizeofthatthing/1620.html?thread=1373268#t1373268).)

"Right this way, Mr. Gaiman," Ianto said, showing the author up the stairs to Jack's office. "Jack's a huge fan of your work. Something about all those angst-ridden gods, he said. I've got standing orders to show you anything you like."

"Thank you," Gaiman replied. "This place is amazing. I can't imagine what sort of wonders we'll find behind that door."

"I'm sure I've no idea, sir." Ianto smiled faintly.

He pushed open the door, revealing a sweaty and naked Jack Harkness sprawled on his back on the desk. Myfanwy was straddling his chest, her beak bobbing up and down vigourously as she caressed every inch of Jack's mighty cock with her supple reptilian tongue. In return, Jack's hand was plunged deep inside the pterosaur, while tenderly, yet with manful strength, he fisted the pterodactyl to the very core of its being.

Jack thrust wildly into the creature's mouth, calling out for more while she suckled him, until with a guttural shout that strangely resembled the pterodactyl's own harsh cry, he gave one last pump of his hips and fell limply back against the desk.

"Oh, baby, you're so good," Jack moaned. "And now I'm going to return the favour." He drove his arm deeper inside Myfanwy's secret treasure, and her leathery wings flapped with wanton excitement.

"Yes, I'm quite sure I've no idea what we'll find behind that door," Ianto said, closing it quickly behind him.

Gaiman shrugged. "You should see what goes on after hours at the Hugo parties." He clapped Ianto on the shoulder and turned him back towards the Hub. "Come on, why don't you show me the rest of this place, and I'll tell you all about the time Harlan Ellison brought a couple of sheep to the con suite ..."


	32. Forget-Me-Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Nine/Romana, amnesia and insomnia.

After the Time War, the Doctor stops sleeping.

Not that sleep has ever been much of a habit in the first place — it's always been a dull and necessary evil, strictly something to keep his body and brain at optimum efficiency — but now that his dreams are filled with the dead, it's a relief not to bother with the pretence of rest at all.

The dreams are soundless. His people did not die screaming. They stood stiffly in their high-necked peacock collars and faced their deaths with the same annoyingly arrogant and stoic reserve with which they faced their lives.

It would have been better if they'd screamed. At least then he'd have known they felt something at all.

* * *

After a while, the lack of sleep drives him crazy, crazy enough that he spends two full days sitting cross-legged on a bench in Southwark staring at the Thames, imagining he can see a pod of dolphins splashing in the rippling grey water.

He hears them call his name, which apparently is John, or perhaps something unpronounceable, or perhaps Fred, which feels strangely feminine and wrong somehow. They want him to join them in the water, where they're nimbly snouting several red balls in the air, passing them in complex juggling patterns until all the balls join together in midair and explode in a fiery sunburst.

He sits on the bench and watches. The dolphins move on to wooden clubs.

* * *

On the morning of the third day — he's pretty sure it's morning, anyway, based on the position of the sun, as well as three or four innate senses some dim part of him employs on instinct alone — a slim blonde woman in jeans and a slightly stained t-shirt a size too large for her sits next to him on the bench. Her trainers have a hole in the right sole, the rubber worn thin where someone's been especially hard on the heel.

"Lovely morning," she says.

He takes a long time to reply, but eventually answers, "Yes, it is."

The woman swings her legs below the bench in short, jittery kicks and keeps her eyes on the Thames. "You've been here quite a while," she says.

"Could be."

"I know. I've been watching."

"Have you, now?"

"Yes. I've been watching you quite carefully. You never move. Your breathing never changes. And if you sleep, I haven't seen it."

"That's because I don't sleep."

"How very interesting," she says. "Neither do I."

"Thought as much, if you'd spent that much time watching."

"Well," she replies, "it's either you or the dolphins."

* * *

Introductions don't take long.

"I'd tell you my name if I'd any clue what it was," she says.

"You took the words right out of my mouth," he answers.

* * *

"Ever miss sleeping?" he asks.

The woman has edged closer to him since they've been talking, and she leans her head on his shoulder. "I miss the rituals of sleep. Fluffing the down pillows, turning back the covers. That first moment when you touch the sheets, and they're as cool as someone else's body."

"Almost sounds relaxing," he says. "I forget what that's like."

"Perhaps if we try it together, it'll work. Two heads are better than one, you know." Her hand taps familiarly on his knee.

"Nah. Got a feeling there's a reason I gave it up, or that it gave up on me."

"I suspect you're not a man who gives up easily. Two sleepless days on the same riverside bench, staring at the same hallucination." She frowns. "It's not normal for people to share a hallucination, is it?"

"Probably not."

"Maybe we should get some sleep. There must be a hotel nearby."

He sighs at the woman's persistence, but digs in the pocket of his leather jacket for money and finds a handful of mismatched coins, a black button, a rubber band that snaps into the shape of a turtle, and a billfold with a blank piece of paper on it. No, wait — not blank: a gold credit card made out to ... well, someone, anyway.

"Would you look at that," he says. Apparently his hallucinations can be practical, too.

The woman pushes herself off the bench and extends her tiny hand. "Come along, then. Sleep isn't just for tortoises, you know."

* * *

The mysteriously blank card gains them access to a plush suite near the top of the hotel, with a basket of fruit and a bottle of Champagne waiting to greet them. He takes a Granny Smith into the shower and chews on it while suds wash away his sweat and stink. When he's done, he wraps himself in one of the thick bathrobes they found in the closet, leaving the water running for his new friend.

She joins him on the side of the bed after her shower, combing out her tangled, wet hair with her fingers. "Isn't it amazing how a simple dousing with water can make one feel so much more ... I don't know, _alive,_ I suppose. Or awake. Yes, that's it. Awake."

He snorts. "Not going to bother trying to sleep, then?"

"I admit that was the original plan," she says. She rises from the bed, takes his hand, places it on the knotted tie of her robe. "But then I thought of something else we could do to pass the time."

* * *

She wraps her lips around his cock, and he decides that this is a much better use of his time than sleeping.

* * *

She stops when he gets close, leaves him straining on the bed with his fists clenched, denting the mattress. Her fingers trace ticklish spirals where his thighs are spread open, and she laughs when he hisses in a breath.

He takes her by the shoulders and lifts her up, pulling her back down to the bed with him. "Don't think we're done yet," he says, and kisses her, tasting her lips and mouth and tongue and sensing something familiar, something beyond just the taste of his own salt and skin on her.

The flavour is everywhere: the tender hollow of her clavicle, the smooth underside of her breasts, the gentle arc of her waist just above her hipbone. The inner thigh, where he teases her as she'd teased him. And strongest of all in the slick and sensitive spot between her legs, where he licks and licks until she's bucking off the bed and begging him for more in increasingly high and frantic tones.

He doesn't let her finish either. Instead, he moves up her body, pushing his cock inside her and dropping his head to her neck, where he can feel her rapid pulse beating double-time against his lips. She moans when he thrusts harder, again when he grasps her leg behind her knee and lifts it to move even deeper inside her. Her skin is so cool to the touch, even with all the sweat they've both raised, and oh, the familiar taste is suddenly stronger at her pulse point than it was anywhere else, strong and bitter, and yet he craves it more than any sweet.

He bites her neck, softly, not enough to leave much of a mark, and she whimpers and tightens her leg across his arse, pulling him as far inside her as he can go and urging him on, until at last she throws back her head and opens her mouth wide and comes with a long gasp of breath. He keeps going, faster and rougher than before.

The woman takes his head in her hands, and kisses him softly. "Doctor," she says.

_Romana,_ he thinks, and his climax rumbles through him.

* * *

She doesn't stay. She says she can't be with him right now, not this soon. He knows she doesn't mean the sex.

"The traumatic amnesia might last a little longer," she says, her palm drawing his eyes closed as he lies on the bed, breathing calmly, quietly, so close to finally falling asleep. "We won't remember this tomorrow."

He nods, kissing her hand when it crosses his lips. He recognises the taste now. She tastes like home.

"That's all right," he says. "Best I don't remember."

He lets sleep draw him away from her, and in the morning, wakes alone.


	33. Fleur de Sel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Ten/Rose: after going to the beach and drying off, there's dried salt all over them.

The pink sand beach is vast, and empty, and disappointingly, not terribly pink at all. More like pale salmon, really; the cheap tinned kind that's had all the colour steamed out of it.

"You promised me pink," Rose says.

"It's pink! For certain especially light values of pink." The Doctor squints at the sun. "Anyway, never mind the beach. Look at that ocean."

The ocean is vast, and empty, and impressively, the deepest shade of turquoise Rose has ever seen.

"Okay," she says. "That's not bad."

The Doctor grins at her and starts loosening his tie. "Last one in's a rotten merlax egg." The tie is over his head and half his shirt buttons are undone before he's finished his sentence.

And if Rose is unusually fastidious about unlacing her trainers so that she can watch the Doctor's naked buttocks as he races towards the sea, well, she can live with being a rotten merlax egg for a day.

* * *

Rose knows there's an explanation for why she can't seem to dry off completely, because the Doctor told her at length: something about compounds in the ocean reacting to her skin's natural oils, and there might have been an aside about fatty acid chains and relative pH, and somewhere during the detour on enzymatic metabolysis Rose fell asleep.

If he acts insulted later, she thinks, she'll tell him she nodded off because Mum used to read her bedtime stories about The Little Phospholipid That Could.

She wakes about thirty minutes later, her limbs feeling oddly dry and stiff except for her right shoulder, where she instead feels the moist tickling sensation of someone licking it.

She cracks open one eye and turns her head to face the Doctor, who stops mid-lick and stares back at her guiltily.

"The water," he says. "When it dried. You're ... um ... covered in salt."

"Is that why I feel kind of ... crunchy?"

The Doctor licks his index finger, swipes it over the swell of Rose's breast, and sucks his finger back into his mouth. "Really flaky ..." — another swipe, this time lower on her breast, and Rose shivers — "... tasty ..." — and now a lazy circle around her nipple — "... salt."

"Oh," she says faintly, distracted by new sensations somewhere much farther south.

The Doctor's lips skate over Rose's upper chest, his tongue flicking her skin as he goes. "You're absolutely covered in salt, Rose," he murmurs. "We could go back to the TARDIS so you could take a shower ..."

One of his hands begins to trace Rose's side, lingering at the crease of her thigh. "Or we could stay here until I'm certain you're thoroughly clean." He punctuates the sentence with a very long lick around the nipple he'd toyed with earlier.

"Here is good! Definitely! Love staying right here! _Oh_ ..." She sighs as he continues his purposeful licking, and threads her fingers through his hair, as matted and garnished with salt as hers must be.

Now, _there's_ a thought. She slides her hand to the nape of his neck to confirm.

"Doctor?"

"Mmm?"

"You're covered in salt, too."

"So?"

"So, I'm not the only one who needs a bath," Rose says with a wicked smile.

* * *

Rose kisses the Doctor's abdomen, salt granules dissolving on her tongue all the way down the kinked hairs near his navel, a trail of minerals she follows until she reaches his groin. She tugs his leg a little closer to her head, nipping lightly at his inner thigh.

Meanwhile, the Doctor is doing much the same to her, which is definitely not helping Rose's concentration, especially when he spreads her legs wider to test just how high up her thigh the salt actually goes. His fingers skim her pubic mound, moving back and forth with almost no pressure, teasing her while his tongue tastes every patch of skin except the one she most wants him to. He spends an inordinately long time on the ticklish spot behind her bended knee, which forces Rose to retaliate with the tip of her tongue curling into his bellybutton.

The Doctor makes a very satisfying yelp.

"Sorry," Rose says. "Didn't want to miss a spot."

"Oh, _now_ you've done it," he says, and suddenly Rose yelps herself when she feels a cool rush of air blowing across her clit.

She does the same to the tip of his cock, which shivers appreciatively, so she pushes him a bit more by sliding her fingers over his balls, circling the base of his cock, and then dragging her fist along its length a few times. The salt cuts into her hand at first, then starts to dissolve in her sweat.

She hears the Doctor moan, down between her legs, and she pumps his cock a little faster before swirling her tongue over the tip to make him moan that much louder.

And then she starts moaning herself when the Doctor finally lays one long, sweet lick between her legs.

Rose takes him into her mouth and tastes the tang of sweat and ocean salt.

He licks her with the patience of a man who would have licked her whole body clean if she'd let him.

Rose slides her lips over his cock, rolling her tongue around and around. He hardens and swells in the warmth of her mouth, and she clasps his hips for leverage, pulling him in as deep as she can, then letting him slide almost all the way out.

Meanwhile, the Doctor gently works his fingers inside Rose's body, his tongue fluttering against her clit, flicking nerves so sensitive her legs shake and stiffen around his head. He pauses, begins alternating his short strokes with long ones, tormenting her by driving her closer to climax, then pulling back just when she's ready to come.

Rose knows she can't hold out for much longer. But she can tell he can't, either.

She feels him tremble when she tightens her lips around him, and she dives back down, slowly running her fingertips along the curve of his arse. He thrusts into Rose's mouth and lets go, silent and shuddering. She tastes still more salt.

She lets him slip out of her mouth, and at last, he's focused entirely on her. He pushes his fingers in harder, deeper; sucks her clit in between his lips and then flicks his tongue over it so quickly Rose's climax shoots through her like lightning, sudden and terrifyingly strong. She gasps, dizzied and overwhelmed, and when her body relaxes, she rests her head on the Doctor's thigh, her hand still clutching his hip.

"Okay," he says, "I think I got most of it off you."

"You sure?" she asks, still breathing heavily.

He places a moist kiss on her belly. "Well, I can't be absolutely certain yet." He kisses her twice more, tongue probing at her skin. "I might have missed a few spots."

"We'll have to start all over again."

"It's a shame."

"It really is."

He gets up off the beach blanket and stretches.

"Race you to the ocean," the Doctor says, and cocks an eyebrow at her.

Rose makes sure to give him a really good view of her backside as she dives into the water.


	34. Let Those Who Thirst, Partake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jack/Ten/2008!Sarah Jane, Ten sandwich.

Sarah Jane reclines, nude, on one of the flat-faced granite boulders surrounding the spring. Sunbeams filtering through the trees have heated the rock enough to warm her skin without burning it, soothing a back sore from an unexpectedly long walk, and she lets her head fall back on the pillow of her folded clothes.

"I'm ready if you are," she says, and waits for the Doctor to respond. He's standing at the point where Sarah Jane's legs dangle off the edge of the rock, one hand braced against the stone, the other lightly brushing her knee over and over again with what Sarah can tell is feigned calm.

He leans down, gently takes a nipple into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it, then looks up at her through his fringe. "Oh yes," he says. "I'm ready."

Their first kiss is hesitant, a little awkward, and nearly thirty years too late, in Sarah Jane's opinion, but she encourages him with fingers tangling in his hair and a hand sliding down his back, and soon enough he's kissing back as if they'd been lovers all along.

She lifts one leg to dig her heel into the edge of the rock, but finds another hand has caught her foot instead: Jack's hand, it must be, since the Doctor's are currently occupied with her breasts. When she feels Jack suck on her big toe and mouth his way along the rest of her foot she starts to giggle and pulls out of her kiss with the Doctor, startling him.

"Jack, that tickles," she says.

"Yeah, but you love it." Jack rubs the sole of her foot with his thumb, lightly massaging it.

The Doctor returns his attention to Sarah Jane's breasts, placing gentle kisses along the top. In between kisses, he says, "Jack, you're distracting her."

Sarah hears a low chuckle, and then the footrub stops, much to her disappointment.

A voice drifts up from the ground. "Okay," says Jack, "I can distract you instead."

The Doctor snorts and resumes his previous activity, but slowly lets one hand creep down Sarah Jane's body, brushing the top of her pubic mound as lightly as he'd been brushing her knee before, biding his time.

He wants her to wait, she realises. Wait even longer for him to touch her the way she's wanted for so long.

She's not going to let that happen. Instead, she takes his hand and guides it between her legs, gasping when his fingers graze her clit and start rubbing carefully along tender skin that's dry at first, then steadily more slick when he dips his fingers inside her.

"Impatient," he murmurs, and nips at the peak of her breast.

Then he gasps himself, a shocked noise, his eyes opening for a moment then settling half-lidded, his stance between her legs widening. Jack and his distraction, Sarah Jane thinks to herself with amusement. Whatever it is he's doing, the Doctor is clearly enjoying it.

She relaxes into the Doctor's touch, so much sweeter than she ever imagined.

* * *

_They've been walking in circles for hours, the Doctor having mislaid the TARDIS ("She's not mislaid!" he protests. "She's exactly where I left her. Wherever that is.") and the planet's magnetic fields playing havoc with the sonic's tracking capability._

_When their trek leads them to a hidden glade with a bubbling spring surrounded by shade trees and giant rocks, Sarah Jane insists on a short break, and all three take long drinks and splash cool water on their faces._

_It's Jack who finds the nearby wooden signpost marked with five interlocking circles the Doctor says look familiar. The text above the symbol reads "Let those who thirst, partake."_

_They shrug and return to lounge on the rocks with Sarah Jane, at least for the moment._

* * *

Of all the many fantasies Jack has had about the Doctor — and a man by now far older than the Doctor has had plenty of time for fantasies — somehow, kneeling on a bed of fallen leaves while spreading apart the Doctor's arse cheeks to lightly tickle him with the tip of his tongue never made the list. But it should have, given the way the Doctor quivers when Jack first touches his lips to the top of the Doctor's thigh, and the way his breath stutters when Jack's tongue dives briefly inside him.

Jack is patient and gentle with him. He's learned it's never too late for the Doctor to turn suddenly skittish, and though it already seems like things are too far gone for him to run away, Jack's not going to give him reason to do so. He lets lips and fingers caress the taut muscles in the Doctor's legs, the heavy weight of his balls, the steadily hardening length of his cock. He slides his tongue inside the Doctor again, flicking at tightened skin and relishing the low moans the Doctor makes in return. He moves with all the deliberate slowness of a lover planning to draw out each moment to its fullest, because it's taken aeons to get here, almost literally aeons, and it may never come again.

Moving up the Doctor's body, Jack kisses him at the small of his back, feeling the Doctor's spine ripple while he bends over Sarah Jane. Jack wouldn't mind attending to her as well, but that will have to wait: he wants the Doctor first.

It feels like he's always wanted the Doctor first.

His tongue and teeth now scraping across the upper curve of the Doctor's buttocks, Jack relies on his fingers to explore lower down, leisurely slipping one inside the Doctor, drawing it back out, then repeating the motion. Again, then again, then another finger as well, and this time the groan the Doctor makes is almost enough for Jack to trade his painstaking approach in favour of standing up and fucking the Doctor senseless this very instant.

Instead he continues, adding a third finger after a few minutes, until the Doctor shakily tells him to stop. The Doctor uses the pause to guide himself into Sarah Jane, hoisting her leg around his waist.

"Jack," he says, and the tremor in the Doctor's voice, a tremor Jack knows he's partially responsible for, is absolutely lovely. "Jack. Now."

Jack rises to his feet, moves himself into place, and with the same leisurely motion as before, pushes his cock inside the Doctor.

* * *

_"They're very rare organisms," the Doctor explains, nervously drawing his coat tighter around his waist. "If I'd had any idea they were in the water, I wouldn't have let you drink it."_

_"_Sex bacteria,_" Sarah Jane says. "It's completely ridiculous. And I suppose this means we all need to —"_

_"We can do this ourselves," Jack says calmly. "Lots of rocks, plenty of privacy. We can each take as much time as we need."_

_The three of them sit quietly on their individual rocks, staring at bended knees, a sparkling patch of mica reflecting the sunlight, anything but each other._

_Sarah Jane is first to break the silence. "No," she says, and then looks straight at the men, unafraid. "We can each have an embarrassing fumble on our own, or we can deal with this like adults."_

_Jack starts to smile. "Sarah Jane Smith, I like your style."_

_The Doctor huddles in his coat and says nothing._

_Sarah Jane walks over to him, places her hand on his knee and says, "You don't have to do this if you don't want to. Jack and I can take care of ourselves. In a manner of speaking."_

_The Doctor takes a deep breath. "Well," he begins, "you could." _

_And then he covers Sarah Jane's hand with his, and says, "But I was wondering if you'd like to go on top first, or whether it should be the other way round."_

* * *

It's not so much that it's difficult for the Doctor to coordinate his movements inside Sarah Jane with the ones Jack is making inside him as it is that the pleasure of being with the two of them like this overwhelms his every sense. Sarah is urging him on with the pressure of her thighs and her hand gripping his bicep; and Jack is driving in and out of him and sucking on the pulse point below his ear; and Sarah's hair haloes around her flushed and beautiful face, almost as young-looking as she was when they met; and Jack's muscular arm is wrapped around the Doctor's chest and tweaking a nipple; and it's nearly more than the Doctor can bear.

They love him so, these humans (and he still counts Jack as human for these purposes, because he's got a human brain and human emotions and feels strangely, incredibly human right now, despite the immortality). The Doctor is usually so careful about holding himself back from them, knowing the consequences of getting involved, knowing also how inevitable it is that he'll fail to stop himself from loving them. Because he does fail, every single time.

He bends down over Sarah, licking salty moisture from the flat spot between her breasts, and thinks that next time, if there is a next time (and there really shouldn't be a next time, but it's always good to have a plan), that he needs to lick her all over quite thoroughly, until she's clenching her thighs around his head and he can make her come with nothing more than a puff of breath and a flick of his tongue over her clit. She's awfully close now, in fact, and maybe he's teased her long enough. He rises to more easily slip his thumb into the gap between their bodies, rubbing slickness up and down until Sarah pants and gasps and then suddenly cries his name, her back arching off the rock.

The contractions of her body start to pull him along as well. He doesn't want to come yet, because then it will be over and he'll have to decide what happens next, which should certainly not be a Relationship, capital-R and all, but breezy feigned ignorance of currently unfolding events would probably not go over well either. And more important, he's not sure he wants to ignore how utterly wonderful it feels to have Jack fucking him right now, or tamp down his desire to turn the tables later.

He needs more time to think this through, that's it. Find a way to stall whatever questions they'll have for him afterwards until he can sort this for himself.

And then Jack serendipitously locates the exact spot at the curve of the Doctor's neck that's guaranteed to drive him over the edge, the spot first located by — well, never mind him, not right now — and the Doctor starts moving faster and faster within Sarah, unable to stop. Jack speeds up as well, slamming into the Doctor and coming with a choked sigh and a bite to the Doctor's neck that's mercifully too light to draw blood but just, just hard enough to trigger the Doctor's orgasm, leaving him shuddering and panting atop Sarah Jane.

She kisses his forehead and tenderly brushes back his hair. It feels ... it feels like he's going to have one hell of a time figuring out what to do next.

* * *

_Sarah Jane's rock is broad enough to accommodate the three of them lying side by side, the light breeze rustling through the trees cooling the sweat on their bodies._

_"I remembered what that symbol was," says the Doctor. "It represents the local fertility goddess."_

_"You could have warned us," Sarah Jane scolds him._

_"I told you, I only just now remembered it. And besides," he adds with a smirk, "I don't think you've anything to complain about."_

_"Always so arrogant. Jack, we should teach him some manners."_

_"Good idea," Jack says, settling a hand over the Doctor's waist. "But first ... I'm a little thirsty."_

_"You know, so am I," Sarah Jane says, reaching for Jack's hand and clambering off the rock._

_"Wait!" calls the Doctor. "Don't —"_

_But it's too late. Jack and Sarah Jane plunge into the cold spring water, splashing each other and shrieking with delight._

_And a few moments later, the Doctor dives in and joins them._


	35. Deadweight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Eleven/Belle from _Secret Diary of a Call Girl._ Bondage, strap-ons; Eleven wants to work out some issues that Ten left him with.

I was enjoying some much-needed beauty sleep after a late night out with Ben and Mssrs. Grey Goose and Noilly Prat when the agency rang.

"Three pm, Ritz-Carlton, a little bondage and dress-up, darling."

"Mmph."

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"It's 'I'm still asleep.'"

"He won't take anyone else."

"His loss, then, isn't it?"

I was about to ring off when I heard, "He's offered triple your usual rate."

I needed my beauty sleep, but I also needed new lingerie. I needed some frilly knickers, that pair of pink and turquoise kitten heels I tried on last week, the slinky black frock from the boutique I can never afford ... let's just say a girl has needs.

"Make it 4pm," I said, and snapped my mobile shut.

* * *

I've often thought that if only Chanel or Louis Vuitton designed bags to hold bondage gear, they'd make a fortune from working girls who need a stylish way to smuggle awkwardly shaped items into posh hotels without arousing suspicion. Something that folds open with neat pouches for your preferred paddles and favourite floggers, but looks like you'd had to knife three supermodels to move up the waiting list to buy one.

In the meantime, I rely on an oversized calfskin tote that's just big enough to hold my adjustable spreader bar, several sets of suede-lined leather cuffs, and a few other choice accessories. I'm hardly a dungeon-mistress, but I like to come prepared, so to speak.

I wasn't prepared for Tim on the other side of the hotel room door.

"Oh. Tim. Um, hello." Ooh, _smooth._ Time for a quick recovery. "I must have the wrong room," I said. "Sorry. I'll just be going now ... off to visit ... my friend. In another room."

He furrowed his brow. To be honest, you could hardly miss the brow-furrowing on a forehead like that.

"If this is the wrong room, then it really is a remarkable coincidence that I'm expecting someone else who looks just like you," Tim said.

"Life is full of surprises, isn't it?" I gave him a polite but sheepish chuckle while I backed away, stumbling briefly as I snagged a heel on the carpet. I am elegance and grace personified.

"Constantly. Why, you could be a Zygon in disguise. Although I think it's much more likely you're Belle, from the agency I rang."

"I could be a whatsis now?"

"Nothing. The point is, I think you're in the right place."

I smiled politely again. "Look, Tim, I think I'd better go."

"You keep calling me that," he said, looking bemused. "Would it change your mind if I told you I'm not Tim, whoever he is?" He reached into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket — 1940s Literature Professor was an odd fashion choice, though I am generally an unabashed fan of bow ties — and flipped open a billfold to show me an ID reading "Dr. John Smith."

I suppose it could have been a pseudonym, but Tim hadn't struck me as the sort who'd go stalkery, and even if he had, he'd have done it long before now. I looked into his eyes as if they'd really tell me the truth, and he stared back at me, face open and honest.

A lot of this business is instinct, and sometimes you have to trust your gut. Mine was telling me Smith was okay. Also, that I really needed a drink.

* * *

After all that business in the doorway, Smith was adorably shy and awkward when he got me inside the room. He fumbled the envelope of money, nearly dropping it on the floor, and a few moments after I left him to open the champagne while I checked in with the agency, I heard the cork pop, followed by a low "Ow."

I took the glass he offered, kissed the red mark on his forehead, and patted the bed to convince him to sit down next to me. "No need to be nervous," I said. "We've got plenty of time, so just relax and think about what you'd like to do while I'm here."

He sipped the wine, but wouldn't look at me at first. "I don't normally do this," he said. "Not in this galaxy, anyway."

"Which galaxy would that be, then?"

"Oh, it's rather far from here. Ring-shaped, which is a little unusual but quite pretty to look at. There's this gas giant in a system near the edge, most intense canary yellow you've ever seen ... ." He stopped midway. "Sorry. Got carried away for a moment ... bit of an astronomy fiend, you see."

"If talking about astronomy relaxes you, we can talk for as long as you like."

"No," he said, and downed the rest of his wine. "That's not why I'm here. And that's not why you're here."

I do love that look men get when they are so desperately horny for you they can barely see straight. He had that look now, only with this hint of sadness that threw me for a moment.

"Here's the most important thing," he said. "And it's important that I say this now, because I don't want to ... I can't hear the wrong answer."

He took my hands in his, and I noticed they were cool and shaky. "No matter what we're doing, no matter what I say while we're doing it, if I ask you if you're happy with someone else ... you need to tell me 'yes.'"

I smiled at him. "For a minute there, I thought you were going to ask me to do something weird."

He didn't smile back. "I'm afraid I just did," he said.

* * *

I had my usual bet going with myself on what outfit he'd ask me to wear. French maid and naughty nurse were the perennial leaders, but every now and then I got something more unusual — policewoman, Playboy bunny, pirate wench, and on one unforgettable occasion, Scary Spice, complete with fright wig. Smith, however, seemed like the classic French maid type: uptight but not the old money sort who actually had household staff; thus, an obsession with Mademoiselle Trixie keeping his banister well-waxed.

Instead, he presented me with black trousers, a purplish top, and a leather jacket in a shade of blue most definitely not found in nature. When I emerged from the bathroom with everything on and my hair down around my face the way he'd asked, his jaw dropped open the tiniest bit.

"You look perfect," he said. "May I ... is it okay if I kiss you? Is that allowed?"

I nodded, and he bent his head towards me, so tentative, as if he didn't know where to begin. His lips were soft and tasted of champagne, and I gently caressed them with my tongue until he opened his mouth and dived deeper into the kiss.

We lay down on the bed, and I pushed his jacket from his shoulders while he kept kissing me. The bow tie came unknotted with ease — good man, wearing the real thing instead of a clip-on — and I slid the silk across the back of his neck. He made a quiet little moan and started bunching up my top, slipping a hand beneath to cup my breast.

"Rose," he sighed, his lips cool on my neck.

_Rose?_ He hadn't mentioned role-play names, but if I can be Belle, I can be Rose, too.

"John," I murmured.

His lips moved higher, and he sucked my earlobe into his mouth. When he released it, he whispered, "Not John. Doctor. Call me 'Doctor.'"

I shifted one leg up to hold his thigh in place. He was starting to harden, and the way his erection rubbed against me felt lovely. "Doctor," I said, and his touches suddenly grew much firmer.

"Say it again," he said.

I ran my nails down his back, loosing his shirt from his trousers, and let my fingers dip briefly below his waistband. "Doctor," I repeated, in as breathy a voice as I could manage.

It was obviously the right word, based on the way his mouth started roving down my body, over the blouse, onto the fine hairs on my abdomen and the lacy top of my black knickers. He unzipped the trousers and slipped them and my knickers off me with a few quick jerks. He'd gone from timid to frenzied in less than a minute, and though I didn't know what fantasy he had going in that head of his, it must have been awfully good.

Just before he lowered his head for that first lick, he stopped to look up at me, and suddenly broke out into a dazzling, joyful smile, bigger and happier than any I'd seen in a long time. "It's _you,_" he said. "It's really you."

"Yeah," I replied, smiling back and ruffling his hair, and then he went down on me.

* * *

I tried to tell him in the middle of it that I don't always come with clients.

"Don't worry," he said, and reached up to touch my temple, smoothing down my hair. For one absolutely mad instant, I flashed back to every time I'd let someone lick me out, every time I'd fucked myself with my own two hands: two fingers in my cunt, two holding my pussy lips apart, one flicking slowly over my clit.

He brought his hand back between my legs, and then did exactly what had been in my head, only with his tongue and his fingers instead of my own. _Exactly._

I came, and then I came again when he worked me more gently afterwards, and midway towards a third orgasm I realised that whoever Smith was, he was a hell of a lot more experienced than he let on.

* * *

Later, I bent him naked over the bed to secure his hands behind his back and attach the spreader bar to his ankle cuffs.

"Is that wide enough?" I asked.

"You decide, Rose," he answered, and I extended the bar a little bit at a time until I saw his legs start to tremble. I ran a finger down the crack of his bottom, stopping to circle the rim of his arsehole, and he gasped.

"You want me to fuck you," I said.

"This ... this isn't about what I want."

"Is that so?" I carefully unrolled a condom onto my strap-on and applied lube to it, then inserted one slippery finger into his arse and wiggled it until he whimpered in pleasure. "Sounds to me like this is exactly what you want."

I pulled the finger out and pushed it in again, harder this time, then did it once more. From the way he rocked backwards into the motion, and how loose he felt inside, I could tell this wasn't the first time he'd had it up the arse, as well as how desperate he was for it now, for whatever mysterious narrative he was running through his head to accompany the shagging.

I replaced my finger with the tip of the dildo, entering him shallowly at first, then sliding in further with great care, all the way to the hilt. Smith closed his eyes and made a satisfied groan.

The first couple of times I used a strap-on, I couldn't quite get the rhythm right. What can I say — I don't come with that equipment standard, so learning to use it took practice. But once you get going, it's terrific fun having a temporary penis and watching your lover squirm and writhe under your command. (It's also a nice ab workout.)

I kept one hand on Smith's back and the other below to lightly squeeze his balls and stroke his increasingly hard cock. He was starting to sweat from the exertion and the strain of having his legs held apart for so long, but I knew better than to let up on him. If he'd wanted things easy, he wouldn't have asked for restraints in the first place; instead, he wanted control taken completely out of his hands.

Except he didn't, did he? One advantage of bum-fucking a guy is that other than the pleasant slap of arse against thighs, and the pressure of a dildo base against your pussy, there are fewer distracting physical sensations than if the guy is fucking you. This gave me plenty of time to think about how meticulous Smith had been, from the perfectly tied bow-tie, to the outfit he'd brought me, to the attention he'd lavished on my cunt, and now to his precise instructions about how he'd wanted to be trussed-up ... followed by that passive "you decide."

Sneaky bugger. Whatever fantasy he had, it involved giving someone the illusion of control, while he got what he wanted in the end. Literally, in this case.

Smith was panting now, his face flushed and contorted, his cock rock-solid in my hand. I kept thrusting into him, pounding hard in time with the strokes of my fingers.

"Rose," he gasped, then called again, louder. "Rose."

"Yes?"

"I need to know, Rose. Do you love him? As much as you ... ." His voice trailed off into a long groan as I adjusted my stance to hit a different angle inside of him.

I hadn't forgotten his original instructions to me, and I realised now that they should have been my very first clue.

"Yes, I love him," I answered. "As much as I ever loved you, Doctor."

When he came, he shuddered and stumbled against the bed, his knees giving way as his orgasm rushed through him. It only took a moment to withdraw and hold him steady on the bed, stroking the wet strands of his hair while I unlocked the wrist cuffs and then knelt down to detach the bar.

I let him hold me, silently, for the rest of the time we had together.

* * *

Smith was gone, of course, by the time I finished cleaning myself up in the bathroom. No surprise there — some clients prefer not to deal with any potentially awkward goodbyes.

He left behind the leather jacket, blouse, and trousers he'd asked me to wear, along with two fifty-pound notes. I pocketed the tip and considered whether it was worth taking the clothes as well, which despite their perfect fit, weren't really my style.

In the end, I walked out without the extra deadweight.

After all, so had he.


	36. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Ace/Martha, scars.

Time may have settled back into place, but Martha hasn't. London is bustling and alive, and its citizens walk the streets with arrogant fearlessness Martha finds totally unfamiliar after a year of huddling in the shadows. Late at night, after her family has gone to bed at an hour when Martha might have been tracking down another group of survivors, she now visits the dingiest, darkest pubs she can find; places where she can watch people be themselves, struggling with ordinary domestic troubles like lack of money or lack of sex, instead of lack of safety.

Usually, people leave her alone and anonymous in her corner. Tonight, a tough-looking brunette seats herself backwards in the chair opposite Martha and sets down an extra beer.

"So, you're one of us, then. Which means you've earned a drink," the woman says.

"Excuse me?"

The woman digs in her jacket pocket and sets a wedge of dark green plastic next to the beer. A blue glow strobes faintly across its surface.

"You've travelled with the Doctor." The woman takes a long swig of her beer, setting down the glass with a satisfied thud.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." She taps the wedge. "Artron energy detector, specially tuned to track people with a specific waveform signature."

Martha tightens the grip on her own pint glass. She could throw it in the woman's face, be out of here in ten seconds flat. It wouldn't be the first time she's had to run after being discovered, not by a long shot.

"Tell me who you are, and I'll tell you if you're right," she finally says.

"Ace McShane. Spent some time seeing the universe in a dodgy old police box with a dodgy old pilot."

"Ace," muses Martha. "I don't think he mentioned you."

Ace snorts. "No surprise there. He always was one for secrets."

"Don't I know it," Martha replies, shaking her head. "The things he didn't tell me — the things I could tell he wasn't even _thinking_ of telling me ..."

"That's him, all right."

"So, you came looking for me ... why, exactly?"

"Every now and then this little dingus goes off, tells me when I'm near someone else like me. And if I like their looks, I go talk to them, see how they're doing."

Martha runs a fingertip over the rim of her glass. "I guess you like the way I look, then."

"Could be," Ace says, and drains her beer.

* * *

"So," Ace continues when she returns with her next drink, "you're a soldier, too."

"Me? No. I'm a doctor. Well, training to be a doctor. Taking my exams soon."

Ace shakes her head. "No one sits the way you do, watching the room like that, unless they've been in combat. I should know."

Martha shifts in her seat, stares at her hands for a moment. Near her left thumb, a pair of initials scratched into the table surface declares eternal love for another pair, shallow gouges delineating what might or might not exist anymore.

"It was more of an occupation than a war," Martha finally says. "He told me I was the only one who could stop it. I walked the Earth for a year, a whole year, nearly got myself killed I don't even know how many times, saw things I wish I'd never seen, did things ... well, you know." She winces. "Things."

"Was it worth it, then, in the end?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it was. We won. Even though hardly anyone knows we lost the first time round."

"You won, eh? Well, you did better than we did."

"You said you were a soldier."

"Among other things," Ace says. "I was a soldier, all right. In the Time War."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly. Not right now, anyway. We can compare scars later."

"Scars," says Martha. "Yeah, I've got a few of those."

"Tell me how you got them," Ace replies.

* * *

"Hard to imagine the Professor in love with someone."

"Harder to be the one he's not in love with."

"You still fancy him, then?"

"You never do stop loving someone, do you? Even your crushes? But I'm not waiting around for him, if that's what you're asking. I'm not waiting around for anyone. Never again."

"I'm not waiting for you, Martha."

"Is that so?"

"It isn't waiting if you know it's about to happen," Ace says, and kisses her.

* * *

The flat Ace keeps for her visits to this time period is nearly bare: a couple of chairs, a rickety table, a futon with rumpled sky-blue sheets. She shucks her clothes and drops them in a heap on the floor, then flops on the futon and motions to Martha.

"Come on," Ace says. "Time to compare scars."

* * *

Martha licks a sticky splash of beer from the dark patch on the underside of Ace's wrist, just below her pulse point.

"Hot oil. Burnt myself frying fish," Ace says.

Martha follows the trail of veins up Ace's arm, lets her tongue linger in the tender skin at the crook of the elbow. "It's the first one I've found you didn't get from the war," she says. She kisses Ace's bicep, nipping at the edge of the mark Ace said came from a laser pistol blast.

"It's the only one like that," Ace says.

"I know the feeling," Martha replies.

She tastes every ridge of the keloid scar, rough and ribbed under her tongue; slides her lips up to Ace's shoulder and beyond, to a divot near her collarbone ("sodding body armour never fits right," Ace mutters); kisses along Ace's jawbone until she reaches her lips, slightly sour from the beer.

Ace draws Martha closer with one hand on her bum and the other stroking the nape of her neck. "Lower back," breathes Martha. "On your left."

Ace's fingertips trace the scar, a shallow three-inch ridge running laterally across Martha's skin, and Martha shivers. "There was a man with a knife," she says. "Nearly caught me as I was running away."

A finger sneaks into the crack of Martha's arse, making her squirm against Ace and her thigh, well-placed between Martha's legs.

"You were lucky," Ace says, rocking into Martha, not quite fast enough, but oh, it's an excellent start.

"Very lucky," Martha agrees. "Very, very lucky."

* * *

Ace's breasts and belly are some of the only unmarked parts of her body. Martha knows, because she examined the areas thoroughly with lips and tongue-tip and soft brushes from the pads of her fingers: smoothing the tan, crinkled areolae, the pale wisps of hair on the abdomen, the coarser strands that trail from Ace's navel, gathering into a thatch between her legs.

Martha flattens her palms against Ace's inner thighs, pushes outward lightly, and drops down to taste the skin here: sweaty, a hint of mineral salts. Here, too, Ace is unscarred, though when Martha sweeps a hand below Ace's knee, lifting it to improve the angle, there's another ridge, another slice of history to explore.

"Banged it on some rocks escaping from Daleks," Ace breathes. "Bloody hell, Jones, just do it already. You're killing me." She strokes Martha's hair. "And here's me thinking I was going to have to do all the work in bed."

"You'll get your chance," Martha says.

Ace shudders beautifully under her tongue, thrashing and moaning at the curl of a finger within her, the licks and swirls Martha makes along her labia. A soft sucking-in of Ace's clit; swift flutters along the edges, deeper pressure from the flat of the tongue. Ace's muscular thighs start to clamp shut, but Martha guides them apart, backs off to gentle flicks, then ramps things up again, seeing how far she can push Ace.

Far. Very far. Ace's frustrated groans only strengthen Martha's resolve to keep teasing her.

She lets her fingers do the work for a while, one set occupied with Ace, the other slipping between her own legs. Sharp, short motions are best in this position, with her body's weight pushing herself into her hand; she finds she's as slick as Ace now, her fingers able to skim back and forth without resistance, and _ah, there,_ that's the spot ...

"Oh no you don't," Ace says, breath ragged, and sits upright just enough to reach Martha's arm, pulling it towards her until Martha's wrist is clasped tight near Ace's mouth. "You promised me my chance." She closes her eyes, envelops Martha's sticky fingers with her mouth, wrapping her tongue over and under and between and all the way around.

For a moment, Martha stops breathing, just concentrates on the electric jolts between her legs. If this is Ace's idea of teasing, then perhaps it's time to let her do what she obviously does very well.

Martha picks up the rhythm she'd found before, the one that makes Ace whimper, makes her thigh muscles quake around Martha's head, and finally, after a few precise, carefully placed swipes, Ace cries out, her cunt pulsing against Martha's tongue.

She clutches so tightly at Martha's hand when she comes that Martha knows there'll be scratches there in the morning, nail-crescents tattooed across her skin as a souvenir. They won't last forever, not like the other scars, but they'll leave a mark all the same.

Time to leave some of her own on Ace, then.

She lies back and runs her fingers through Ace's hair, and lets her get to work.


	37. Voltage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: RoboSkull!Master/Ten, electricity and the kinky collar. (Now AU as a result of having been written before EoT.)

All it takes is one concentrated burst of energy, one focussed stream of lightning to the centre of the Doctor's body, to drop the Master's enemy to the ground.

"The electricity thing ... that's new," the Doctor pants.

The Master swings a leg over the Doctor, crouches down to examine him closely. That hair of his, excessively wild in this body anyway, is now completely stood on end, and the Master can smell the sharp tang of ozone mixed with charred cotton.

"Apparently the people who resurrected me felt the need to make some improvements," he says. "Not that I needed improving, apart from that little 'being dead' issue, but I must say, lightning bolts from the hands — it's a nice touch, don't you think?"

The Master's fingers brush the heavy canvas of the Doctor's coat, static electricity crackling as he pushes back the flaps and slides his hands over the Doctor's chest, caressing him. "Did you enjoy that jolt to the hearts? It certainly took you long enough to fall down." He leans over and rests his head on the Doctor's chest. "Oh, how disappointing. Both still beating ... but I think the left one's not quite in sync. Give me a moment, I can still stop it —"

"No, thanks," says the Doctor, and next thing the Master knows, he's been yanked down by the dog collar and is lying flat on his back, the Doctor now on top of him. A surprisingly butch move from this incarnation, not that there's anything wrong with that.

"Ooh," the Master says, closing his eyes. "More of that, please."

"You're incorrigible," says the Doctor.

"More like incredibly horny," the Master muses, wriggling below the Doctor, who rises up slightly with a shocked O on his face the Master strongly suspects isn't nearly as representative of "appalled" as the Doctor would like to think it is. "All kinds of new things about this body, if you'd care to try them out. Bigger sex drive, I think —"

"How is that even _possible_?"

"— and blond hair, I've never seen you turn down a blonde —"

"What exactly are you implying about me?"

"I'm not implying anything," the Master says smoothly. "I'm stating it outright. You have a type. You always have. And when it isn't some simpering Earth girl desperate for some bouncy-bouncy on the Time Cock, it's me." He wriggles again and notes that this time, the Doctor doesn't move so much as suck in a breath. Progress.

"And besides," he adds, "did you even see yourself a minute ago? Couldn't take your eyes off me. Oh, how I've missed that come-hither stare of yours."

"You were _dead._ You couldn't miss anything."

"Don't split hairs." The Master's eyes flick upwards. "Actually, I suppose it's too late for that."

The Doctor tightens his grip on the collar, knuckles tucked between leather and skin to put pressure on the Master's larynx. Blood rushes from the Master's brain down towards his cock, but he doesn't struggle to breathe. The respiratory bypass will take care of that soon enough, if it has to; and right now, he's light-headed, his favourite Time Lord plaything is shifting over his groin, and okay, maybe a grotty construction site isn't the most romantic place he's ever done it, but he's never been a roses-and-chocolate sort of man, either.

He thrusts his hips upwards, rotating them to grind against the Doctor, who makes a soft whimpering noise yet tightens his grip on the Master's collar.

"Come on," croaks the Master. "I know you've got more than that in you."

The Doctor stares down at him, inscrutable, but the Master feels something shift over his groin and knows it isn't the Doctor adjusting his stance. And besides, the Doctor's slipped his fingers from the collar, instead pressing it into the Master's throat, thumbs driving thick leather into his skin. It's going to leave a mark, a deep, magnificent mark, and he tips his neck back to increase the pressure as his vision diminishes into darkness and his respiratory bypass starts to take over.

A sharp spike of pain stabs through the Master's forehead, his hands begin to crackle and spit electricity, and suddenly the Doctor leaps off the Master with a yell. The Master inhales a long, deep, and slightly disappointing breath, given how much he'd been enjoying things, but there's still plenty of time for fun: a fresh jolt of lightning, and the Doctor is back on the ground beside him, glowering.

"New survival reflexes, too," the Master says, smiling. "This lightning is awfully good fun."

"Can't say the same for the skull x-ray," the Doctor says. "That's just creepy, that is."

"You really think so?" The Master slides his hand between the Doctor's legs to cup his erection, stroking him lightly with thumb and forefinger. "Hmm, I'm not sure when you started finding 'creepy' a turn-on, Doctor, but I approve."

"I don't —"

"Don't try to deny it," the Master says, leaning close enough to brush his lips against the Doctor's neck. His hand continues stroking the other man's cock. "So aggressive with that collar of mine. So passive when I touch you." He lets a tiny jolt of electricity escape the hand between the Doctor's legs, which makes the other man squirm and moan; and then the Master stops, and waits.

Not even ten seconds pass before the Doctor whispers, "Do that again."

So the Master does, and again after that, relishing the way the Doctor writhes below him, the harsh cries he makes when the electricity prickles along his balls. It's a sensation too good not to share, and he unzips his jeans, taking himself in hand, but the lightning is barely a tickle across his own skin, whatever genetic modifications he's had to enable the lightning also protecting every part of his body from its effects.

"Damn," he mutters.

"Let me," the Doctor says. He spits several times into his palm, then reaches for the Master's cock.

The saliva isn't much moisture, but it's enough. Fuck, _yes,_ it's enough for something to sizzle through the Master's fingers all along his cock, and he groans just as loudly as the Doctor has been. The Doctor's shaking now from the added current in his hand, and watching him tremble does as much for the Master as the constant rhythm of strokes.

He moves faster. Faster still. But it's the Doctor who succumbs first, tremors all along his body when one last caress of sparks tips him over the edge, and a stain spreads slowly across the front of his trousers. His hand falls away from the Master's cock, but it only takes a few more quick jerks before pleasure thrums through the Master's body, and he sees another stain showered along the Doctor's shirt.

The Doctor turns his head away, covers his eyes with his arm.

"This isn't what's supposed to happen," he says. "The Ood told me I'd come here to die. Not to ... not to shag you in the middle of nowhere."

"There's no reason you can't do both," the Master says, grinning, his smile broadening as the Doctor turns back to face him with a glare.

"Just you wait," says the Master. "All good things, in time."


	38. A Very Serious Story In Which The Doctor Loses His Emo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Eleven/Romana. She won't sleep with him until he's proven that he's less of an emo douche in this incarnation.

Sneaking out of Gallifrey's time lock before the Immortality Gate closed had seemed like such a good idea. Concealed by a perception filter, Romana had crept past Rassilon's little greeting party and into the Naismith mansion, whereupon she'd promptly been knocked cold by explosion-related debris. She'd come to in the middle of a peevish rant of the Doctor's she was certain she had to be hallucinating, because even at his most arrogant and prickly, he'd never been quite so obnoxious before.

But that had unquestionably been him spouting off to the old codger trapped in the glass booth, so by the time a radioactive Doctor lay crumpled on the floor, Romana found she was all out of sympathy. Not that the bugger leaving her trapped for eternity with that gasbag Rassilon had been doing much for her mood in the first place.

And _then_ the damned fool had taken a few hours to mope his way through time, complete with wistful sighs; deep, meaningful glances; and silences so laden with regret Romana thought the Doctor might keel over from terminal self-pity before the radiation did him in. The regeneration, when it finally arrived in all its melodramatic glory, came as a relief, at least until Romana remembered what the Doctor had told her always happened when he regenerated.

Which was that he went _bugshit insane._

"_I'm crashing!_" he whooped, clinging to the controls while the TARDIS spiralled into Earth's atmosphere like a broken-winged bird.

"Oh, this really is the living end," Romana grumbled, disabling her perception filter, stepping into the Doctor's view, and swiftly punching in several commands on the control panel. The TARDIS wobbled, righted herself, and spewed a white mist over the flaming wreckage. It missed Romana. Mostly.

The Doctor started to sputter. "You –"

"Yes, me," Romana answered. "If we're quite finished crashing now, there are some things I'd like to discuss."

"But you're here! And you weren't before! And you're here! You're really here!"

Romana sighed. "Please tell me this is just regeneration sickness and not an especially stupid incarnation."

The Doctor grinned wildly. "Probably," he said, and promptly fainted.

* * *

Romana let the Doctor go a day and a half in the Zero Room before waking him. In fairness, he'd likely have been fine after only a day, but Romana and the TARDIS found they had quite a bit of gossip to catch up on.

The Doctor was lying spread-eagled on the floor, snoring impressively, when Romana entered the room. She crouched beside him and touched him on the shoulder, and he woke with a start, limbs flailing.

"Romana," he said, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "I thought I must have been dreaming."

"What a remarkable coincidence. I dreamt that one of the bravest, cleverest people I know – not as clever as me, of course, though he did try – had turned into a petulant, self-centred egotist."

"And who would ... oh."

"I did say he was a clever man."

"Romana, when have I ever been petulant or self-centred? Egotistical – well, on occasion, I suppose, but you know, I _can_ be rather astonishing."

"Astonishing, yes," Romana mused. "What an excellent description for that speech you gave the poor old man back at the mansion."

"I was going to die! I was upset! It was upsetting!"

"'Astonishing' is also the word I'd use to describe the way you treated a certain Dr. Jones while she travelled with you."

The Doctor sat upright. His eyes narrowed, and he glared reproachfully at the walls. "You've been chatting with the TARDIS, haven't you?"

"I had to occupy myself somehow while you recovered, and I've read most of the books in your library. Twice."

"Show-off."

"One should never be embarrassed about being well-read ... though I would like to have a word with you about the books I found underneath your pillow. Vampires do not sparkle."

"They should," the Doctor muttered.

"What was that?"

"Never mind. Look, if I tell you Martha and Wilf have forgiven me, will that help?"

"The TARDIS also mentioned something about swanning about, calling yourself 'The Lonely God.'"

"You have to admit, I was alone." He paused. "Except for my friends. But none of them were Time Lords! ... except for the Master. But he wasn't a Time Lord when I found him!"

"I'm not entirely certain you're helping your case."

"This is an all-new regeneration, Romana. An all-new Doctor. I'm free of those burdens now – they've burnt away. With fire. Burning fire. Cleansing fire. You did put out the fires in the console room, didn't you?"

"There's extinguishing agent I'll never get out of my robe." Romana smoothed down the schoolgirl skirt she hadn't worn in years. It still fit perfectly, and reminded her of a number of pleasant memories of Paris.

"Ah. Well. Sorry about that. But thank you for saving the TARDIS. And me," he added. "Even if you don't sound terribly sure that I deserved it."

"That depends on whether you're going to continue to wallow in agonisingly tedious self-pity about never getting what you want, or whether you're finally going to remember that the universe is a glorious, wonderful source of opportunity for a Time Lord determined enough to seize it."

"A very difficult choice," the Doctor said, squinting his brow in thought. "What do I get if I pick the second one?"

Romana loosened her necktie. "I had some thoughts about appropriate incentives."

"Is that so?" The Doctor slipped Romana's tie from her collar and wound it around his finger slowly.

Romana swallowed. One of her pleasant memories involved a rather long scarf, a couple of clove hitch knots, and the base of the Eiffel Tower. Her necktie was a bit short by comparison, but no doubt still had some entertaining uses.

"Mind you, it's an incentive used only in extreme circumstances," she said. Surely he couldn't tell she'd started breathing three and a half percent more quickly than normal, could he?

"Romana," said the Doctor, leaning closer, "I think you're breathing about two ... no, three percent more quickly than normal."

Damn him. Still, he hadn't quite hit it on the nose, so that was something.

His lips were surprisingly close now. When had that happened? Had she not been paying attention? That was impossible. She always paid attention, very close attention, absolutely _perfect_ attention, because that was how she knew his hand was sliding underneath her skirt.

"Well," Romana murmured, "these circumstances do seem rather extreme. It's best not to waste any time, really."

"You did say I should seize the opportunity," the Doctor said, and then he kissed her.

* * *

As shags went, this model of Doctor lacked the spontaneity of his fourth incarnation, and the meditative tenderness of the eighth, but more than made up for it in enthusiasm. Eager and energetic, he didn't last long their first go-round – "new equipment needs some calibration," he explained sheepishly afterwards – but a second round quickly followed, with Romana rocking back and forth atop him while he fondled her breasts.

He was noisier than the last two as well. "_Oh,_" she heard, often and at length. And "_Yes,_" while he bent his legs and thrust hard into her from below. And finally, a long, stuttering moan when one last push left him throbbing gently within her, his chest heaving with exertion.

But one thing remained the same across all the incarnations Romana had slept with: he showed infinite care and patience when he touched her, his fingers drawing lazy circles round her clit, then dipping inside her to draw out the slickness within and drive her further along. He moved with such deliberate speed that Romana lost count of how often he'd guided her towards the edge, then pulled back, tension ebbing and flowing within her; and when at last he increased the pace of his strokes, each flick of his index finger exquisite pressure upon her, Romana came with long gasps of breath, pleasure rolling through her body.

As her haze began to recede, she turned to face him. Oh, he was smug. Always was after sex, so convinced she'd never had any better. Someday perhaps she'd teach him some of the tricks Leela had taught her, but that lesson was probably best left to another day.

He smiled down at her. "That was quite an incentive."

"Did it work?"

"I should say so," the Doctor said. "If I had any cosmic angst left over, it feels well and truly cured."

"Are you quite certain?" Romana asked. "I'd hate to think I'd left you with any lingering twinges. You'd be liable to spend the next few years sitting in a dark room reading unspeakably depressing novels about sparkly vampires."

"Well," said the Doctor, leaning in to kiss her breast. "I know you like to be thorough about these things."

"I do," said Romana.

And the Doctor was never emo again.


	39. Mind Over Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Eleven/Einstein, in Egypt, building the pyramids. (Based on Matt Smith's own admission that [he wrote Eleven/Einstein fic](http://community.livejournal.com/doctoreleven/241371.html).)

Albert Einstein left Germany with the Doctor three months ago, linear time. Linear time is simple, literally straightforward, predictable.

He has long since lost track of how long they've been gone in relative time, despite his best calculations, which the Doctor marvels over while steadfastly refusing to identify any variables Einstein has failed to account for. Nor will the Doctor discuss how his impossible ship flies, much less exists, although once he rattles on about the power generated by gigantic hairless hamsters from Radacon III, exercise wheels, and radioactive walnuts, and it's an almost but not entirely convincing explanation.

They've hopped backwards and forwards through time, seen miraculous and terrible things on Earth and beyond, done miraculous and hopefully not terrible things themselves. Experienced more than Einstein could have ever dreamt of, theoretical physics aside, events he knows he'll never forget.

Including this one: atop the dusty head of the Sphinx, the Great Pyramids of Giza nearly complete except for their capstones improbably hovering in mid-air, a throng of jackal-headed aliens engaging in a massive orgy on the sands below. And Einstein, back pressed to the TARDIS doors, with the Doctor on his knees before him, preparing to unfasten Einstein's trousers.

The Doctor's long fingers twitch and then pause at the first button.

"It's not too late to stop," he says. "The Osirians might sort this without us. Without us doing this."

"A moment ago you were certain they needed our particular genius brainwaves to boost their energy field," says Einstein. "The pyramids must be completed, Doctor."

"Well, there's interference, and there's ... ." He waggles his fingers, looks up at Einstein. "There's things you might not be comfortable with. Might not enjoy. Might not enjoy with me, specifically. Perhaps with your wife, and I don't look anything like her, I should think; plus missing some fairly critical wifely bits, last time I checked — though you never know, something could have changed while I slept."

"Doctor," says Einstein, gently touching the Doctor's hand, "if I didn't trust you, I would never have left Berlin with you. We have seen so much together, you and I ... though I admit I would not have expected to discover sexual energy can be converted into telekinesis."

The Doctor's hands still. "Good," he says. "I was worried you might think I was just chatting you up. Because that's a really rubbish chat-up line, and I've got much better ones."

"Ah, you had me at 'it travels in time,' Doctor."

"So I did," the Doctor replies, grinning, and unfastens the first button.

* * *

The Doctor's mouth and tongue feel no different from a woman's — cooler at first, perhaps, but warming quickly. He takes in Einstein's cock, wiggling his tongue along the underside in short strokes, and Einstein sucks in a breath when the Doctor retracts to pay close attention to the head. An electric pulse spikes through Einstein's cock, hardening him further, while the Doctor makes a satisfied chuckle and draws Einstein back in.

The Doctor's thumbs trace Einstein's inner thighs. Light touches, whispers raising gooseflesh on his skin, circling higher until they glide across his balls, the shock of it enough to make him jump. The Doctor, unfazed, strokes more firmly, sucks Einstein in a little deeper, lips and tongue and fingers connecting to push Einstein onwards.

As difficult as it is to concentrate right now, he still notices the capstones rising, nearing the topmost level of the pyramids but not yet there. Nor is he, though he's getting closer by the second, the Doctor flicking his tongue faster now, a flurry of motions that send Einstein thrusting harder into the Doctor's mouth, increasingly desperate to come.

Einstein blocks everything out: the moans of the Osirians fucking below, the capstones wobbling in mid-air, the desert heat scorching his skin, the thick-grained wood of the TARDIS beneath his palms. There's only the warmth of the Doctor's mouth enveloping him, the rapid thud of his heartbeat, the fluttering tension of his climax approaching.

He nearly doubles over when he comes, knees suddenly weak and wobbly as the endorphins rocket through his body. The Doctor slows, draws back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks over his shoulder at the pyramids, where the capstones are still shy of their home.

"Almost there," he murmurs, unfastening his own trousers and taking himself in hand. "I'll sort this, Albert. No need for you to get involved."

Einstein kneels next to his friend, puts one hand on his shoulder, the other on the hand the Doctor has wrapped around his cock. "It's the least I can do," he says.

The Doctor's breath falters when Einstein touches him, and slowly, he moves his hand aside for the other man to take over. The Doctor's already firm in Einstein's hand, and Einstein works steadily, guessing at the sort of pace and pressure his friend might like. From the way the Doctor's eyes are squeezed shut, and the slack-jawed look on his face, Einstein's guessed right.

The Doctor's so hard and full now. A simple biological reaction, even for an alien like him; funny to think that far across the stars, the rules of pleasure apply as equally as the rules of physics. Einstein tugs a bit faster, adds more pressure with a twist at the tip of the Doctor's cock, and the Doctor moans, leaning in and pressing his forehead to Einstein's, his hand to his shoulder.

Out of the corner of his eye, Einstein sees the capstones, now risen to the top of the pyramids and beginning to shift into place. The Doctor groans through clenched teeth, grips Einstein's shoulder tightly.

"_Oh,_" the Doctor says, quite suddenly releasing a stream of warm liquid across Einstein's wrist —

— and then everything, absolutely everything, fills Einstein's head:

an everything of black, whirling, circle-upon-circular, impossibly wide, luminescent threads of memory and memories-to-be diverging and converging, faces Einstein doesn't recognise and yet knows he'll recognise later, maybe, probably, sometimes, the chaos swirling in eddies, almost a pattern, if he can just rise above it, see it from the top, fit the pieces together —

— but then the Doctor's eyes fly open and he jerks backwards in shock. The _everything_ disappears. For a few moments, Einstein frantically tries to reconnect the threads of time and space and gravity, other forces he can't even put a name to yet, but it's like trying to catch a waterfall in his hands: the memories sieve through his fingers and slip away.

The Doctor's face reddens, and he tucks himself away hastily. "I — um — terribly sorry about that. I should have been more careful. Left the front door wide open for you to walk through. No harm done, I hope."

Einstein grabs him by the shoulders. "Bring it back!" he cries. "I almost had it!"

"No." The Doctor rises to his feet, peers up at the capstones, now neatly settled atop the pyramids. "Come along! You're always on at me about how the old girl flies; thought you might enjoy a trip to Radacon III. Better fetch your wellies; those hamsters make quite a mess."

"You can't be serious," Einstein splutters. "After what we just did — after what you just _showed_ me — "

"Albert," the Doctor says. "I made a mistake. I have to let you get there on your own. You're brilliant, Albert, the most brilliant man alive today. I could give you the answers, but that's not really what you want, is it?"

Einstein gets up, dusts off his trousers, and stares into the distance beyond him. The Osirians are now dancing round the pyramids, cheering and celebrating. Aliens, on his planet, thousands of years in the past, and here he is, standing atop one of the world's greatest wonders, watching it with another alien with a time machine.

He's never had a choice, and the Doctor knows it. "Giant hamsters, eh?" says Einstein.

"They're quite friendly," the Doctor says, extending a hand. "Come along, Albert. We'll find out together."


	40. Boxed In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from eleventy_kink: Eleven/Dream Lord, anything dark and disturbing. (Contains spoilers for "The Pandorica Opens"; may no longer be canon-compliant with "The Big Bang.")

The Doctor spends his first hour in the Pandorica working out methods of escape. Surely Houdini had taught him something that applied here – pity neither Amy nor Rory had slipped him a key with a kiss.

He spends most of his second hour wishing he'd had the forethought to pack a set of burglar's tools in some easily reachable location, or perhaps had smuggled in a small but well-trained primate capable of picking locks. The rest of the hour is spent wondering how he's ever going to reach that itch behind his left shoulderblade.

In the third hour, company comes calling.

"That's another nice mess you've got yourself into, isn't it?" says the Dream Lord. "Daleks, Cybermen, Sontarans, Silurians, Sycorax, Judoon ... so many races coming together in the spirit of cooperation, and all because of you. It's touching."

"Oh, just what I needed. I can flog myself without your help, you know. Metaphorically speaking."

"It's hardly my fault if the psychic pollen made some permanent adjustments to your neural pathways."

"In that case, the least you could have done is shown up with a key."

The Dream Lord shrugs and waves his hand through the Doctor's body.

"As you may recall, it's my job to point out your faults, not help you overcome them." The Dream Lord folds his arms, leans casually against the wall. "And make no mistake, this is all your fault. You could have solved the Amy problem long ago, but you were too busy introducing her to van Gogh and trying not to get into her knickers once Rory was out of the way."

"I never –"

"'Oh Amy, that skirt's so short. You'll catch your death of cold. Here, let me warm you up.' 'Oh Amy, River had the most wonderful idea. You don't mind if I stand here and watch you two, do you?' 'Oh Amy, how embarrassing for you to walk in while I'm having a quick wank.'" The Dream Lord smirks. "I don't make up the dreams, Doctor. I merely report them."

The Doctor glares at him and returns to struggling with his restraints, which stubbornly remain metallic and totally fixed in place. But at least there's that itch taken care of.

"There is one thing I've been wondering about," says the Dream Lord. "All that time you've spent tied up, held down, in jail or otherwise – I've seen what effect that has on you, even if you don't care to admit it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the Doctor replies, and a first few pinpricks tingle through his inner thigh.

"I must say, I admire your restraint under the circumstances. All alone, no companions or jailors to see you, no reason not to let your guard down for once. It's just me here. The man who knows how hard you have to work to keep this particular quirk under control."

"Shut. It." Cuffs digging into his wrists, pain and more spiking through the points where the metal pinches his skin.

"Of course," the Dream Lord adds smoothly, "this would be so much easier if your hands were free."

"I'm open to suggestions," snaps the Doctor, shifting in his seat to try to relieve a sudden pressure in his groin.

The Dream Lord leans in close enough for the Doctor to see the weave of his bow tie, but even the intricate zigzags of silk threads aren't enough to distract him from the increasingly urgent needs of his body, needs he hadn't even considered until the Dream Lord broke his control.

"How sad. You can't even give yourself a pity fuck without help, can you?"

"You can stop tormenting me and actually start _being useful_ anytime now!"

"If you insist," sighs the Dream Lord. He shucks off his jacket and rolls up his left sleeve, wiggles his hand in front of the Doctor's face and licks it suggestively.

"Now of course I can't actually touch you, so you'll just have to use your imagination. Which you already are, so well done, you." His smile is half-amusement, half-condescension.

The Dream Lord's hand disappears into the Doctor's trousers. "Of course, if I _could_ actually touch you, I might be a little disappointed right now. People always say it's not what you have, it's what you do with it, but personally, I like a really big, thick cock. Something like our old friend had when he had that salt-and-pepper hair, and that smashing van Dyke, remember that? He was so terribly handsome back then."

His wrist moves up and down along the placket of the Doctor's trousers, and the Doctor squeezes his eyes shut. If he concentrates, he can feel a feathery touch teasing his cock, frustratingly light sensations that just barely begin to relieve the ache he's been feeling.

"You're thinking about him now, aren't you?" the Dream Lord says. "Or are you still fantasising about our lovely little redhead and what she's up to with her brave centurion? Or what she could have been up to with you, if you'd been bold enough to make a move."

"Come have a look, if you're so curious." _The Master nipping at his neck, caressing him with leather gloves. Amy's delicate hands wrapped around the Doctor's cock, manicured fingers curling around his balls, slipping behind ..._

"Whatever it is," the Dream Lord says smoothly, "it stops now." And suddenly, the Doctor can feel a stronger hand gripping him, a thumb rolling circles over the head of his cock.

"How?" he gasps, his eyes flying open. "You said you couldn't –"

"But I'm you, Doctor, and if you're a liar, so am I." The smile this time is all menace. "I'm in your head. I can take those fleshly impulses of yours; sift through a few favourite memories; blend with your deepest, most perverted secrets; and make you come anytime I like.

"And you will," he adds. "And you'll be thinking of me when you do."

A saliva-slickened hand slips along his length, tightening near the top, twisting in a rhythm familiar to the Doctor from having used it so many times himself, and it's simultaneously embarrassing and breathtaking to have someone else know exactly the sensations he craves, exactly when he wants a squeeze or a finger-twitch or that soft swirl that feels almost like a tongue. He thrusts upwards into the Dream Lord's grasp, every moment a little harder, a little tenser, a little closer.

"Oh, I love you like this. You've always been a narcissist, Doctor, but fucking your own subconscious – it's so ludicrously self-involved I'd be beside myself with laughter if I weren't otherwise occupied."

If it had been anyone else doing this to him now, he'd be able to hold back. But not with the Dream Lord in charge; not with the hint of a lustful memory curling at the base of his cock, nor a long-forgotten fetish twirling at the tip, nor a dream of a woman who's not yet met him for the first time dragging nails along his inner thigh. He doesn't even have to ask the Dream Lord to quicken his pace; it just happens, exactly when the Doctor would have wanted it to, and then he's moments away.

The Dream Lord's other hand reaches behind the Doctor's neck, caresses its nape. "You want so many things, Doctor. You want your companions to love you even when you treat them like the idiot apes they so often are. You even want your enemies to love you, and if that doesn't work, fear's every bit as potent.

"But most of all, you want to love yourself, and that's the worst part, isn't it? You can't, not after everything you've done. You can't forgive yourself; you can only bury what you hate, in the deepest, darkest holes you can find, but it's never deep enough, because if it were, I wouldn't be here. So I'm going to remind you, right now, right before I make you come all over yourself, why I'm here: because no matter how often you convince yourself you're right, no matter how often you fix what seems to be broken, there's always some small part of you that knows you're a failure."

Just a little more, just another few seconds, and the Doctor's almost there –

"You fail your friends, you failed your people, and consequently, you fail yourself. Your last self wallowed in despair, positively revelled in it. You're marginally better, but not enough to send me packing. There's only one way to be rid of me: learn to live with failure. Somehow, I don't think you're ready for that."

He's teetering on the edge, and the Dream Lord surely knows it, because that's the moment when his hand stills.

"So if you're ready, now's your chance. What are you going to do about me?"

The Doctor doesn't have much wiggle room, but he works with what he has: he leans as far forward as he can within the shoulder restraints, and kisses the Dream Lord full on the lips, open-mouthed, tongue slipping inside to taste everything about himself, painful as it is.

The Dream Lord kisses back with surprising tenderness, and when his hand starts moving again, the Doctor gasps into his mouth and finally, blessedly comes.

The Dream Lord draws back from the kiss, flicks his eyes downwards. "Ah, there you go. Right back where we started, with another nice mess."

"Are we done here?" The Doctor asks, still catching his breath.

"For now, I think." The Dream Lord winks at him. "You did well, Doctor. But I make no guarantees about whether you'll see me later."

He's gone before the Doctor can blink.

So in the fourth hour, and the hours after that, the Doctor waits. And it's never been such a relief to be alone.


	41. The One Where Eleven Fucks a Football Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From eleventy_kink: Eleven/football team from "The Lodger." The Doctor is confused about male bonding and has seen too much porn.

"So, what's the appropriate victory celebration here? Ritual feast? Parading about with the heads of our enemies on pikes? ... no, come to think of it, that's a bit violent, not going to condone that even if it is traditional. Group sex, then?"

Craig spat out his beer. Waste of perfectly good lager, that, and another tick mark in the "new flatmate a complete nutter" column. "_Group sex?_" he spluttered.

"Well, it's a quite common mode of celebration in some cultures, especially ones with a surplus of young males needing to burn off excess energy after the excitement of victory. Saw a couple marvellous films about it a while ago: _The Blowjob Bunch, Ass-Men of the Mountain ..._"

"Those sound like pornos, mate," said Sean.

"No, Jack told me they were documentaries."

"Listen," said Craig, "We go to the Kings Arms, we have a few pints, we go home, no group sex. Same as always."

"Honestly, you lot, still stuck in the twenty-first century, I see. No spirit of adventure, no willingness to explore foreign customs. I expect you don't see the point of group sex, do you, Craig?"

"Not without a lot more women, no."

"Your loss," the Doctor said, shrugging. He turned to the rest of the team. "Come on, boys! Victory blowjobs for everyone!"

* * *

Craig wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up back at Sean's flat with everyone else – there'd been more beer involved, that was certain, but mostly he remembered being pushed along by his cheering teammates, none of whom, incredibly, seemed able to keep their hands off the Doctor. It was as weird as everything else associated with the man: the constant stream of lunatic chatter, the bizarrely confident yet awkward social interactions, and now this inexplicable animal magnetism.

Whatever it was, even the most avowedly heterosexual (or so Craig had thought) members of the team were now pawing at the Doctor: one thrusting himself into the Doctor's mouth, one fucking him hard from behind, one jerking him off, with the rest of the team fisting themselves while they waited their turn. The Doctor, for his part, seemed as blissfully at ease as the team fucktoy as he'd been as the team's hero.

When the one in the Doctor's mouth groaned and flopped back on the floor, spent, the Doctor turned to Craig and smiled. His lips were swollen and sopping wet. "Come on, Craig," he said, "give it a go. Promise you'll enjoy it."

"He's bloody amazing," called Craig's friend on the floor. "Beats the old right hand any day."

"I should hope so," said the Doctor. "Got loads of practise with my schoolmate. Ah ... oh ... best slow down there, fellas, I'm not quite ready yet ... ."

Craig stepped forwards, hand on his zip. Why did he trust this man? He'd let him barge into his flat and handed over the keys under the influence of nothing more than charm and the best ham and cheese omelette he'd ever had. And now here he was, considering whether to have sex with him. A man. A deeply weird man who considered toothbrushes weaponry and had stolen his penalty kick from him, the bastard.

But the most important thing at this very moment, the vitally important and yet strangely unsurprising thing, was that the Doctor, among his many unusual and extraordinary talents, was apparently a champion cocksucker.

If he were going to steal the limelight from Craig, this sounded like a perfectly good way to make up for it.

"Open wide," said Craig, and the Doctor did. Now, that, Craig could see the point of.


	42. Cleaning Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Eleven/Amy, sharing the bath in Liz X's palace.

Amy sinks below the water's surface, red hair trailing jellyfish tendrils above her. She emerges with a splash and a shake of her head, fingers combing and spreading the strands, making sure every last one is clean. Liz X's queen-size whirlpool filters and cycles the water, but Amy's taking no chances, plunging down again and massaging her scalp.

The Doctor, already well-scrubbed, settles into his seat, closes his eyes, and enjoys a jet of water thudding into his lower back and the steam soothing his sore muscles. Even with a new body, 900 years takes its toll.

The water ripples unexpectedly high on his chest, and then a splash of droplets hits his nose. He opens his eyes, discovers Amy shockingly close, shiny and fragrant tresses dangling over her shoulders and pointing downwards towards ... no, best not look. They'd each paused briefly before undressing to share the giant tub, wordlessly daring the other to look away, and neither had flinched. That didn't mean he planned on tempting fate any further.

"So, Doctor," Amy says, "ever done it in a queen's bathtub?"

"Done what?"

"You know."

"Washed off unidentified sick, laundered a few delicates, built a tiny paper boat ... ." A pair of fingers creep up the side of his ribcage towards the centre of his chest. "Ah," says the Doctor, "you weren't discussing origami, were you?"

Amy's lips brush against his. She tastes faintly of Liz X's soap, waxy and floral, flavours he might not have considered alluring until now, but this is a new body with new preferences, and apparently, new desires.

Well. Perhaps not new desires, so much as desires for new people. New people with intrepid tongues and a hand creeping back down from his chest in a less-than-subtle way, and only when Amy straddles his left thigh and that terribly unsubtle hand finds its target between the Doctor's legs does he gasp into her kiss and pull away, his forehead touching hers.

"Amy," he murmurs softly, "I've had a lot of rubbish ideas in my time, but this is among the worst. Top ten, maybe. Well ... top twenty, but you don't want to know about the ten that beat it."

"First of all, this wasn't your idea. And what're you calling 'rubbish'?" She strokes him once, dragging a nail from root to tip, and his effort not to make a sound while she does it instead results in a constrained and high-pitched whimper.

"This is neither the time ... _ah_ ... nor the place –"

"Felt like the right place to me."

She clamps round his thigh, and he raises it, listens for her satisfying squeak at the contact.

"Still think this is a rubbish idea?" Amy licks a water drop from the corner of the Doctor's mouth. He's not sure whether it's from the bath, the steam, or his own nervous sweat.

He swells in her hand. This really is a terrible idea, fucking Amy in the queen's bathtub – fucking Amy, full stop. He knows all too well what happens when his companions start to believe he's got these ordinary human desires – never mind that he really _does_ have them, far more often than he'd like to admit – but let this one weakness seep through and they start to forget the other things about him that are very much _not_ human. If nothing else, his last incarnation was a giant object lesson on this problem, and yet he's still letting Amy stroke him, and still driving his thigh up between her legs.

But if they're quick about it, maybe Liz X won't notice the unusually long time they've been in the bath. And maybe Amy won't take this as anything more than a little stress relief shared between friends, a one-time occurrence they won't ever have to mention again.

Although the way Amy ripples her fingers along his cock, the muffled gasps she makes when he rolls a nipple below the pad of his thumb, the enthusiastic and thorough kisses – she _is_ a professional, after all – it's awfully tempting to consider repeat performances. A sweet interlude in the console room with those long and gangly legs of hers wrapped like a bow round his waist; maybe an afternoon of casual fondling and more spooned up behind her on one of Regulus Minor's blue-sand beaches – and _there,_ Amy's found just the right rhythm this brand-new cock of his seems to want, tight at the bottom, loose in the middle, tightening again at the top, repeat while her tongue slips in and out of his mouth, teasingly rapid and rough; and his mind starts to go blank, blocking out everything but Amy's motions and the tension he's so close to releasing.

It's the first orgasm he's had in this body, and it bubbles through him as he moans into Amy's mouth. She relaxes her grip, giving him a last few strokes while he finishes and starts to soften.

"Thank you," he murmurs, kissing her once more. "Did you ...?"

Amy wriggles in place, makes a frustrated sigh. "Almost."

"Let's see what we can do about that." He reaches for her waist and helps manoeuvre her to the wide lip of the sunken tub, handing her a fluffy sunshine-yellow towel to wrap across her shoulders.

He touches his lips to her knee, then slides his mouth along her inner thigh, slowly parting her legs and sucking drips of bathwater as he goes, nipping her once to see what she'll do – which is lightly swat his head when he raises it to check her reaction, and call him "cheeky."

She stops talking when he lowers his head, just runs her fingers through his hair and tightens her thigh muscles while he flicks his tongue against her, so light at first he can barely taste her, then switching to long licks and swirls that make her kick and splash bathwater across his back. He can't see Amy's face from this position, but imagines it's lined with concentration, teeth biting her lower lip while she stifles her moans.

She was right about being close, though, because when he tries to slow his pace, Amy instead leans into him and then makes one sobbing cry, then another, quieter one when he keeps going with broad strokes that make her thighs quake. The fingers tangled in his hair stiffen, then relax.

The Doctor rests against Amy's leg and lets her continue to play with his hair. If he speaks, she might expect him to talk about what comes next, even if for the first time in a while, the idea of "next" fills him with less terror than it used to. Maybe it'll be okay this time. Maybe he won't lose or hurt or damage this one. Maybe –

"Think our clothes are dry yet?" asks Amy.

Or maybe this one isn't looking for "next" at all, or at least right now.

"I should think so," the Doctor replies. "Ready to get back to investigating, Pond?"

"Wouldn't want to keep Her Majesty waiting, would we?"

"Too late for that."

"Then come on, slowpoke!" Amy reaches for his hand and pulls him from the water. "I'm ready when you are."

Maybe she is, he thinks, and wonders when he'll be ready himself.


	43. Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Eleven/Romana. River totally ships it. Bonus points if she documents their sexings. (Sorry, no bonus for me this time.)

Taking the Doctor to bed, River had discovered, was one of the only ways to get him to say anything useful at all. Not that he didn't talk – no, that was his speciality, along with using as many words as possible to say as little as possible – but rather that if she wanted to peel back a layer or two, see what he'd actually be willing to reveal about himself, she had to get him in a relaxed, unguarded mood.

It didn't always work, but at least it was an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon.

"My people didn't really celebrate birthdays," the Doctor said. It had seemed like a simple question – _when's your birthday, sweetie?_ – but as usual, he was dodging it.

"For long-lived species, a birthday's irrelevant. Totally meaningless. Although I must say I enjoy a good birthday cake, all those little icing rosettes, and that sugary grit that gets caught in your teeth and turns your tongue blue."

"If you don't celebrate your birthday, how do you know how old you are?" River looked up at him. "I should have known. All this time, you've been making it up."

"Well ..."

"Nine hundred seven? I don't think so. Shave a century here and there, did you?"

He hesitated. "Maybe one century. A small one."

"Don't worry," River said, swinging herself out of bed and reaching for her blouse, "you don't shag like anyone a day over five hundred."

His hand crept across her back, fingers tapping the ridge of her spine. She loved to be touched and he knew it, used it against her whenever she edged too close to one of the secrets and memories cobwebbing his mind.

They spent a lot of time in bed.

* * *

Sometimes River's sense of sentimentality got the best of her, even when she tried to suppress it. Most of it was locked safely away in her diary, where the objects of her affection would never see it, but every so often, a little trickled out.

Like now, the past couple of days spent contemplating the birthday question – because even if the Doctor didn't celebrate it, wouldn't he enjoy a present? Who didn't enjoy presents? And a surprise – that would be even better, because at his age, there was so little left to surprise him.

What do you get the man who has everything? Storage, as the saying went, but the Doctor had infinite amounts of that, despite a valiant attempt to fill it all – that was River's explanation for the room packed with yo-yos, anyway, or the one devoted to cogs, some as minute as her smallest fingernail, others so much taller than the door she'd no idea how he'd got them in there in the first place.

She could give him the gift of her time, though time was hardly at a premium for him. Not to mention that their lives seemed fated to wind round each other out of order, and there was no point in offering a gift River wasn't certain she could deliver.

But if there were a time she could deliver – even if it wasn't with herself – what might that be worth to him?

She set the coordinates.

* * *

River knew the knock on the door was coming, but the noise still startled her. An understandable bit of nerves, given who was at the door, not that she was going to let the Doctor see any reaction other than an enigmatic smile.

"I'll get it," she said.

"River, who knows we're here? And where are we, anyway?"

"You'll see. Stay there; it's a surprise."

"This is my ship. I'll stay where I like."

"Which is over there. Now, are you going to let me answer the door?"

The woman standing outside the TARDIS was pale and slim, with blonde hair hanging straight down her back. She had a peculiarly authoritative calm about her.

"Is the Doctor in?" she asked.

"He is," River said. "But he may not look quite the way you remember."

"I should imagine some time has passed since the last time we saw each other."

"Among other things."

Romana clasped her hands in front of her waist. Despite her slight presence, she had a stare that River had always suspected could knock out a water buffalo at thirty paces.

"Are you going to let me in?" Romana asked.

River swung the door wide and looked over her shoulder at the Doctor, still glued in his seat like she'd told him, but craning his neck to see the doorway.

The way his mouth hung open in surprise for a full five seconds before he was a blur of hands and tweed at the door was most satisfying.

* * *

River excused herself from the console room under the pretence of needing to research an upcoming dig, and was not surprised to find the room empty when she returned an hour later. She curled up on a chair with her book and waited.

Fifteen minutes later, she turned on the TARDIS' shipboard monitor. A sea of static, no matter how many tuning controls she fiddled with. She turned it off and settled back in with her book.

Another fifteen minutes went by before she tried again, this time adding a few discreetly whispered words in an attempt to cajole the TARDIS into showing her what she wanted, and a small love tap when the ship stubbornly stuck to the snowy display. She gave up and returned to the chair.

But twenty minutes after that, when she was swearing to herself this would be absolutely the last time she tried to check on them – naturally, just to make sure the Doctor hadn't accidentally electrocuted or drowned himself and his guest somehow – the monitor's static faded away, a black and white display wiggling into place.

The Doctor was slowly unbuttoning Romana's blouse.

"You've got a funny idea of what's private and what isn't, old girl," River said, and settled in to watch.

* * *

River had watched her lovers fuck other people before, and it was always instructive, seeing how her partners' techniques worked (or failed to) on others, how the new partner tried to please River's lover, how awkwardness would (hopefully) transform into passion.

But this was the first time she'd reunited a lover with an old partner of his own, and watching how tenderly the Doctor stroked Romana's face, how her fingers curled tight in his hair when she kissed him ... these were people who knew each other in a way River didn't yet know the Doctor, although sometimes the way he looked at her made her wonder just how much more he knew about their future than she did.

He'd slip sideways past her every time she tried to get closer. Foolish of him, really, since she was trained to dig up the past, and every sidestep only made her more committed to dig as deep as she could. A man of secrets couldn't expect someone who pries for a living to let his secrets lie. It was almost a game between them at this point, both of them too competitive to give up on it, though River was fairly certain the Doctor didn't know the extent of everything she'd done: the books she'd read, the sights she'd seen, the people she'd talked to, the ones she'd slept with.

Like Romana.

* * *

Romana cradled the Doctor's head while he sucked on one of her nipples, his hand moving steadily between her legs. Romana's leg drew up, clamped against the Doctor's side; River could see how quickly she was breathing, but she knew by the sounds Romana was making – short gasps, not lengthy moans – that Romana wasn't quite there yet.

_Because she was there, in River's memories, sweaty wisps of straw-coloured hair curling at the nape of her neck and where River had nipped at her collarbone, relishing each delightful squeak Romana made when River's teeth grazed her skin. The vortex manipulator had been on Romana's wrist by then, but she'd stayed behind for one last afternoon on the narrow camp bed in River's tent, where the screeching of tropical birds outside couldn't quite match the noise from inside._

Romana was close, probably only a few minutes from her peak, but River also recognised the Doctor's approach, knew he was going to try to hold Romana off for another moment yet.

Time enough to play along. River unzipped her trousers, wriggled them and her underwear to her knees. Sucked on a finger, matching the rhythm the Doctor was setting, then sliding it between her own legs, already wet just from vision and memory.

She drew the finger up and down herself in long, slick lines, a little extra pressure near the end, but not too much, not enough to really get herself going. Just a warmup, even if now she could see Romana throwing her head back, hear her sharp gasps for air.

_Remembering her own head cocked against her pillow, Romana's slim fingers caressing her from the inside, then drawn out, slipping silkily along River's clit. A leisurely touch that frustrated at first but led to so much pleasure at the end, and Romana had that knowing smile, so clever and proud and satisfied that she knew exactly what she was doing, knew what was going to make River scream, but was going to take her time with her anyway._

Romana straddled the Doctor. He groaned as she settled on top of him, a noise River was very familiar with, like a short sigh of relief. For a man who'd taken some effort to seduce, he always seemed to enjoy himself once he got started.

As he was here, his hands drifting across Romana's back while she bent to kiss him, her fingers tangled in his hair, her thumbs pressed taut against his temples, her forehead to his –

_River's turn to set Romana alight, starting off with teasing swipes of her thumb, while Romana touched her forehead to River's, held her head in place. Romana's eyes were closed, but her face betrayed frustration, disappointment. She said nothing, just let River go, and River licked a trail across Romana's torso, round each nipple and the supple undersides of her breasts, the fluttering muscles of her belly; and whatever had been missing before, Romana's deep sigh when River's tongue found her centre was enough to know that no longer mattered._

River clenched her thighs, rubbed herself a little faster, more direct pressure on her clit, wet and slippery beneath her fingertip. The Doctor and Romana were still locked together, forehead to forehead, their bodies rocking slowly but steadily. Close in a way River had never been with the Doctor, could never be with either him or Romana.

But there were other ways to bring them close, perfectly lovely human ways River had made it clear she wanted to share with them. Neither the Doctor nor Romana had succumbed immediately, but when they had, it had been worth it, so very worth it.

If she couldn't be with them in person, she'd have to rely on memory, and she'd no shortage of memories of them worth reliving. _Romana's fingers inside her, curling, stroking, pressing deeper; the tang of sweat on Romana's skin where River licked and sucked at it. Another night: River on all fours, the Doctor gripping her hard at the waist as he fucked her from behind, puffs of breath suddenly hot on her back when he bent over her, swiped his tongue up her neck and punctuated the motion with a bite._

And now River's own fingers finding the perfect rhythm on her clit, that sweet moment before she tipped over, switching to short, jagged strokes to draw the moment out, see if she could make it last even another few seconds ...

The Doctor was first to go. River knew when he came as sure as if she'd been the one on top of him: the sudden shift to rapid thrusts; the way the muscles in his neck tightened; the soft groan, like air escaping a sagging balloon –

Romana knew it too, increasing her pace to get every last bit of friction out of the Doctor, and then one abbreviated cry when she came again –

– and then River, finally allowing herself to let go, her body rocking forwards as the pleasure overtook her, her fingers rubbing ever more slowly until the last shocks subsided.

The TARDIS monitor showed the Doctor and Romana still clutched together, breathing hard. They kissed briefly, foreheads still touching.

When they finally broke that contact, Romana laid her head on the Doctor's chest, face turned towards the monitor. She wore a familiar and blissful smile. But her eyes were open, and though River knew Romana couldn't possibly see her, she wondered how Romana managed to stare right through her anyway.

* * *

River cleaned herself up and settled back in the console room with her book just in time to catch Romana sneaking towards the TARDIS doors, her blouse and hair significantly more rumpled than before.

"All done?" River asked.

"With what?"

"Oh, whatever it is two Time Lords get up to. Multidimensional calculus of some kind?"

"Perhaps if we were still in the nursery. No, we were having sex."

River grinned. "I think I'm going to like you."

"I told him I'd find my way out. Besides, I think he was actually getting sleepy. Hard to believe, but I suppose he's beginning to show his age."

"Now I wish he were here to hear you say that."

"He's heard it before." Romana paused at the console, fingers skimming the hot and cold taps the Doctor had so far refused to explain to River. "He lies about his age, of course. Lying comes quite naturally to him, though I must admit that's come in handy more than once."

Romana's hand lingered on the cold tap, then twisted it a quarter-turn to the left. "She'll run a little more smoothly now," she said. She cocked her head towards the console, adjusting the tap until something only she could sense felt right.

"He said he wouldn't take me home, you know," she continued. "Something about the TARDIS needing spare parts he couldn't find. Not one of his better lies."

"You know I can't tell you why he's lying."

"I wasn't asking. Anyway, I'm sure I'll work it out. He's never been half as clever as he thought he was."

"Don't I know it."

Romana patted the cold tap, her adjustments complete. "Time for me to find another way home, then."

"Romana," River said, "I can tell you one thing."

"Yes?"

"About a hundred metres south of here, you'll find a group of the most tedious academics at a party. The birthday girl will be out of her mind with boredom and looking for a pretty face to distract her. She might be able to help."

Romana raised an eyebrow. "And how will I know this woman?"

"You'll work it out," River replied.

Romana eyed her again the way she had in the monitor: cool, appraising, and unafraid.

"I'm certain I will," she said.

The TARDIS door closed behind her noiselessly.

River leaned against the railing, remembering. _Her jungle fatigues, soaking in her perspiration and the humid air. The endless droning of her colleagues about their project, revisiting points River had argued with them a hundred times before they even set foot on this world. And suddenly noticing a blue box partially shielded by prehistoric ferns and jungle shadows, with a blonde woman in a red blouse marching up to it, knocking on the door._

"Happy birthday to me," she said. "With gifts for everyone."


	44. Slip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Donna/Martha, naked mud wrestling. Bonus if someone watches.

"You said we'd do _what?_" said Martha.

"Well," the Doctor began, scratching behind his ear in that way that might have been charming if it didn't always signal something having gone appallingly wrong, "the Fltrxans would be terribly insulted if we don't take part in their millennial celebration."

"And just how insulted would that be?" asked Donna. "'Won't be inviting you round for tea again' insulted, or 'off with their heads' insulted?"

"Don't bother, Donna," Martha said. "You know the answer."

"It's just a little mud!" the Doctor insisted. "It'll wash right off when you're done."

"And where will you be while Martha and I are doing all the dirty work? Literally?"

"Cheering you on from the sidelines! Here, let me take your clothes."

"Awfully eager to help, isn't he?" Donna said to Martha.

Martha shed her leather jacket, handed it to the Doctor, and started unbuttoning her jeans. "Yeah, he is," Martha replied. "But I know how to sort that."

* * *

The Fltrxans' celebratory mud pit was a shallow, rust-coloured basin atop a stony slope below which the Doctor and the Fltrxan crowd were gathered, six-fingered hands waving betting slips in the air.

Martha and Donna squared off in the pit, feet planted as firmly as possible in the squelching muck. At least the Fltrxans were moistening the mud pit by pumping in water from a nearby hot spring; Martha shivered just thinking about what it would have been like otherwise.

"You ready for this?" Donna asked.

Martha nodded. "We do it just like we planned."

A gong rumbled, and Martha launched herself at Donna's midriff, shoving her to the ground. Gobbets of steaming mud, thick and creamy as custard, splashed onto her face and spattered Donna's torso. Donna kicked outwards, trying to dislodge Martha, but Martha was already smearing a handful of mud across Donna's chest, trying to keep her pinned down.

Her hand swept across the soft swell of Donna's breast, thumbing the nipple and pausing to circle it until it peaked; and then Martha pushed harder, mud-slickened hands running up below Donna's breasts to cup them. Donna arched her back, curving into Martha's touch with a sigh.

But at last, she hooked a leg over Martha's and flipped her over. Warm mud oozed up the crack of Martha's arse, and she tried not to think about how long it might take to clean up later. On the other hand, if Donna joined her in the shower ... well, best not to get distracted, at least not before they accomplished what they'd set out to do.

The grappling had to look good. Martha clasped her hands round Donna's back, trying to roll her over, and making sure that their breasts swung and rubbed against each other in the process. Donna, who'd bought into the plan with the eagerness of a woman who enjoyed the occasional casual tumble with her friend, retaliated by gripping Martha's thighs with her own and attempting to wriggle her way on top. They were both too slippery to succeed, but Donna was still able to work her leg between Martha's, sliding it back and forth with gentle but delightful pressure.

Martha groaned. The only drawback to her plan was that the further things progressed, the harder it became to concentrate. Even so, she didn't want the Doctor to escape unpunished, and she raised her head slightly to check on him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him, unblinking and jaw slackened, hands clasped together at waist level as if he were trying to hide something.

"Get up, Donna," she whispered. "He's not there yet."

Donna was splayed across Martha now, trying to pin her, but the mud was too slippery: she skidded off Martha with a light push, and then Martha rose to her knees, mud dripping from her in fat streams.

"Oh, I'm not even close to finished with you," Donna replied, and launched herself at Martha, one hand on her shoulder, trying to push her back to the ground; the other hand planted on Martha's thighs for leverage. Which hand subtly drifted between Martha's legs while Martha simultaneously pretended to fight Donna off and gasped with pleasure just loud enough for the Doctor to hear.

That, at least, she didn't have to fake. Donna's mud-warmed fingers were supple as a tongue flicking sweetly at Martha's clit, and it was all Martha could do not to grab Donna's hand, grind herself against it, beg her to increase the pace. Martha moaned extravagantly, hoping the Doctor was watching. The sooner they could complete the plan, the sooner she and Donna could finish things up properly.

Right on cue, the Doctor had shifted his coat to cover half of his front, and Martha noted short, jerking motions below the arm of the coat. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing heavy enough that even through mud-sticky eyelashes, Martha could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. It wouldn't be long now.

She leaned into Donna's neck, nuzzled it with her nose. Donna smelled of fresh dirt and sweat, metallic but oddly compelling.

"It's time," she whispered.

"That predictable old space pervert," Donna said. "Go on, then, do it."

Martha grabbed a hank of Donna's hair and yanked downwards.

"You bitch!" Donna yelled. She scooped out a handful of mud and threw it at Martha, passing too far to the right to hit her.

"That does it!" Martha yelled in return, sweeping up her own handful of mud. She took her time searching for a target, arm flailing to her side as Donna jerked her back and forth more gently than it must have looked to the spectators.

Her aim, however, was perfect. The arm of the Doctor's coat was jiggling wildly, his mouth was hanging open, and Martha knew, just knew that he'd been mere seconds away from coming the moment that the mudball hit him, slopping all over his face and meticulously gelled hair. He was too covered with dirt for her to see his expression, but she still knew what it must have looked like: a mix of spluttering indignance, horror, and well-deserved shame.

She flopped back in the mud, laughing, and waited for Donna to pin her.

* * *

By the time Martha and Donna had exited the ring, they could see a long-legged figure in the distance stalking off towards the TARDIS.

"Serves him right," Donna said. "Still, that wasn't so bad. Although that Denebian chocolate sauce you found the other day was loads better."

"Stickier, though."

"But fun to wash off all the bits we missed."

Martha grinned. "Ready for a shower, then?"

"You have no idea," Donna replied, and stretched her hand out to Martha.


	45. Tea and Shortbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Nine/Jackie, any kink -- though I'm ashamed to admit I forgot to add a kink. Sorry, OP.

Jackie Tyler likes to tell herself that she isn't afraid of anyone, not even the man on the other side of that blue box's door. The man who whisked her daughter away for a tour of the universe, a girl who should be old enough to know better than to be impressed by the latest flash bloke and his flash ride. Because alien or not, that's all he is, Jackie's sure of it; just looking for a bit of fun with an Earth girl before he nips back off to Mars or wherever it is he came from. Like any other man Jackie and Rose have dealt with.

But it still takes a deep breath and a shake of her shoulders before Jackie knocks.

"Thought I'd drop by for a talk. Just you and me," she says when the Doctor opens the door.

"Can't. Busy washing my hair. Could take days. You wouldn't believe my split ends."

"Don't be stupid," Jackie says. "I do hair for a living, and you've never had a split end in your life." She pushes both him and the door aside. "I brought you some tea," she adds. "Hope you take it with sugar, 'cause that's how I made it. And I've got biscuits. Shortbread. The ones you've been nicking every time you bring Rose round, and don't think I haven't noticed the packet's half-empty afterwards."

She lays the supplies out neatly on the captain's chair, the one flat surface other than the floor in this absolutely mental box of his. Rose had gushed to her about how it was bigger on the inside, with a coral forest stretching to the ceiling and corridors and rooms that shifted at a whim. But if the Doctor's expecting Jackie to coo about how impressed she is, that's never going to happen. She'll bury her shock and swallow her vertigo and pour tea into two mugs with barely a flutter in her hands.

She offers him a mug and waits for him to drink before she speaks.

"So," she says, "I hope you and Rose are being safe, because I'm not ready to be a grandmother."

She lets him cough and choke for several seconds before rubbing his back soothingly and carefully ignoring his glare.

"Rose and I are not a couple," he says. "I don't do that with people I travel with."

"Look, I'm not going to lie. You're too old for her. But I can learn to live with it as long as she's happy and safe."

"We're not – I'm not –" He slumps against the console, arms crossed, face aimed anywhere but Jackie's direction. It could be the shifting lights, all turquoise and tangerine, but Jackie thinks his cheeks are pinker than they were a moment before.

Liar. Not about his relationships, maybe, but he's still lying if he thinks she can't see with her own two eyes how he feels about her daughter.

"Jackie, I solemnly swear to you that nothing is going on between me and Rose. We're just mates, that's all." Scratching his ear now, still avoiding her.

Let him stew for a while, then. After all, he's done it to her.

She smiles sweetly at him and reaches for the plaid packet on the chair. "Biscuit?"

He hesitates, but eventually takes one. And this is how Jackie Tyler begins to tame the Doctor: with sweet tea, shortbread, and a sympathetic ear.

* * *

Jackie's got to admit the Doctor does make outer space sound like the grandest adventure anyone's ever had. And Rose, her head in the clouds so often, it's no surprise she'd fall for a man who comes from the sky.

What Rose would say if she knew her mum was bringing the Doctor tea and cakes every time Rose disappeared for a visit with her friends ... well, best not to think about that, because it doesn't look all that good, now, does it? Rose already jokes that Jackie'll have a go at anyone out of short trousers, and the Doctor must be well beyond that age.

He also doesn't seem interested. Oh, he accepts the biscuits and tea cheerfully enough, and as far as Jackie can tell, her little visits are as much a secret on his end as they are on hers. He seems to like having someone to talk to (or talk _at,_ Jackie discovers quickly enough) while he's rummaging through the guts of that machine of his, and even if she can't tell the difference between a molecular microconverter slot and a micromolecular slotted converter, an hour's chat with the Doctor is an hour she isn't lonely.

An hour he isn't lonely, either. Jackie knows he'd never admit it, but every terse phone call she gets inviting her to that little blue box tells her otherwise.

She sips her tea, tells tales on her clients, listens to him laugh. She's surprised to discover how quickly she stops hating him, even though she still keeps up the pretence around Rose. How Rose could be dying a million years away, dying before either she or her mother are even born, and Jackie would never know. He'll break Rose's heart in the end.

If Jackie's not careful, he'll break hers, too.

* * *

Another short trip home for Rose, now off shopping with Jack; another trip to the TARDIS for Jackie, where she keeps the Doctor company as he fiddles with the ship's controls and patiently nods in all the right places while she gives him the latest gossip from the estate. She knows he's not really listening, that he never really has, but somehow the furtive phonecalls keep coming, nourishing the secret in her heart.

Jackie freshens the Doctor's cup of tea and hands him a spanner. _You get nothing in this world without asking for it,_ she thinks, or at least she never has; so you might as well ask, because the worst you'll get is nothing anyway.

"You're really not shagging Rose?" she says.

"Nope."

"Captain Handsome, then? Should've known, you with that leather jacket and buzzcut ..."

"What? No, no, it's not like that."

"So you don't like boys or girls, then? You need some kind of alien – I don't know what you call it –"

"Jackie," he says gently, "I like everyone."

"Oh."

"Maybe even you."

"_Oh._"

The spanner drooping lazily from his hand twitches, and Jackie thinks, _this is it, he's going back to work now, like we never had this conversation at all._ But instead he keeps watching her, the usual exasperation missing from his face, replaced by ... well, Jackie's not entirely certain, really, but if it's what she thinks it might be – that pause between breaths when she might, just might have a chance with him – then it'd be stupid as hell not to take it.

She brushes his cheek with her hand, leans in, presses her lips to his. Mentally counts _one, two,_ thinking surely she'll never make it to _three_ before he withdraws with a patronising remark about humans and their uncontrollable mating urges, or worse, that if he isn't doing this with Rose, what makes Jackie think he'd ever try it with her?

But at _three,_ his lips part and press back against hers, and Jackie's surprised squeak is swallowed in a sigh when the Doctor caresses her neck, fingers grazing the loose strands curling at the nape, pulling her tighter against him.

* * *

He offers to show her to one of the TARDIS bedrooms, but Jackie refuses. "It's weird enough in here. At least I know what I'm getting with that chair," she says.

She insists on a condom, too, which starts all sorts of sheepish patting of his jacket and rifling through his pockets, but he eventually finds a box in a military greatcoat hanging from that incongruous coatrack by the wall.

He squints at the box. "Manufactured in 2034; can't have expired yet," he says, grinning at her, and extracts a packet.

"You're a very silly man," Jackie says, cocking her head at him. "Come here."

* * *

It's hardly the first time she's knelt like this front of a man, but it is the first time the man's been an alien. Still, he feels real enough, straining against the palm of her hand while she gently tugs the zip on his jeans, sliding them down his thighs along with his underwear. It would be a disappointingly normal cock if it weren't for the fact that it might look human, might smell musky and salty like a human cock, might twitch when she runs a finger experimentally along its length, listening for the Doctor's sigh; but it's still _not_ human, not at all, and this is a man she should probably not be having sex with, but here she is on her knees anyway.

She rips open the foil packet, carefully slipping its contents into her mouth, holding it delicately with lips and tongue as she begins to slide it onto the Doctor's cock. She inches her way along slowly, feeling him harden as she goes, rolling down the edges with her tongue; and the deep groan he makes when she's finally got him all the way in, that low moan of _Oh, Jackie,_ they're the sweetest things she's ever heard from him.

She works him with her mouth while her hands roam across his lower body, spreading his tense and muscular thighs apart, cupping his balls and caressing them with the pad of her thumb. He's hardened so quickly that Jackie wonders just how long it's been for him, anyway, and the thrill of being the one to break his dry spell vibrates through her. She slides a finger deeper between his thighs, up below the curve of his arse, wriggling it between the cheeks, and suddenly he thrusts into her mouth then pulls back entirely, panting.

"Stop," he says. "Please, stop. Not unless you want me to ..."

His face is flushed, his chest heaving with breath, but he extends a hand to Jackie and helps her up.

"Oh, my poor knees," she says. "Not getting any younger, are we?"

"You have no idea," he says with a rueful smile.

* * *

They never do get entirely undressed. Jackie's sprawled across the chair, blouse halfway up her chest and bra unhooked but dangling limply from her shoulders, while the Doctor, still in jumper and leather jacket himself, fucks her vigorously. He's fast, but measured; as if he knows how little time they have left before Jack and Rose burst in with a clutch of shopping bags, but isn't going to let that distract him from attending to Jackie, either.

Good thing, too, because a woman gets tired of vibrators and half-drunk post-party shags, and even if this isn't going to last as long as Jackie'd like, it's still a man focussed entirely on her and no one else. Jackie squirms below him, trying to adjust the angle so the friction hits her right where she needs it; and the Doctor picks up on things immediately, reaching with one hand to support Jackie's leg and the other tugging her arse towards him, and adding a little twist to his grind at the same time.

Jackie moans. The Doctor's lips are against her throat, and his breath is hot and raspy on her neck, and she hangs on that much tighter when he starts to thrust erratically. He lifts his head, staring wordlessly at Jackie, and something flickers across his face so fleetingly that Jackie would have missed it were it not for that steady gaze of his.

Joy. Affection. Maybe even love, not that she could ever dare hope for that.

And then his eyes squeeze shut and he thrusts twice, hard; and as the warmth swells through Jackie's own body, the Doctor lets out a quiet groan and stills within her.

* * *

He walks her to the door afterwards, hands her the thermos and mugs from beneath the TARDIS console. Jackie pretends she's forgotten about the half-empty packet of shortbread unsubtly concealed behind the toolbox.

"'Til next time, yeah, Doctor?"

He leans in to kiss her, awkward, as if he's heard this is something humans do after sex but has never actually tried it himself. All things considered, his callused palm warm against Jackie's cheek as he kisses her tenderly, he does a fine job with this human custom. He draws back briefly, kisses her again to punctuate the goodbye.

"'Til next time, Jackie," he says.

The door closes soundlessly behind her.

* * *

She never sees this one again.


	46. No Names, No Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Nine/River, "no names, no regrets." Includes light bondage.

The Doctor hunched over the pink, iridescent bar while nursing something equally pink and iridescent and stealing occasional glances at the crowd writhing on the dance floor. A brief flash of bleached-blonde pouf illuminated by laser-light: Rose. A pair of naked, muscular arms waving overhead: Jack. They'd wanted a night out, a proper 51st century night out at a proper 51st century bar, so here he was, stuck playing chaperone.

He supposed he could be out there dancing with them. Neither would object, but that would mean considering whether he'd object to it, and that train of thought only led to a set of admissions he preferred to keep buried deep within.

Good thing, then, that another blonde, this one in a shimmering silver slip of a dress, had just sidled up to grab his attention. Curls that put his sixth incarnation's head of hair to shame; a wicked curve to her smile; honey in her voice when she asked the bartender for a shot of lemon hypervodka; a voice more honeyed afterwards, when she whispered in the Doctor's ear.

"Come with me."

"Where?"

She tilted her head towards a poorly lit corridor opposite the dance floor. A glass heart glowing the same shade of iridescent pink as the bar hovered over the corridor entrance.

"My friends …" He gestured to the dance floor. "I shouldn't leave them."

"That's very loyal of you, but it doesn't sound like much fun."

"Who said I'm not having fun? I've got a drink with a little brolly in it. It even opens and closes, see? Don't tell me that's not fun."

"There's fun," the blonde said, lips suddenly close to his ear, "and there's fun."

The Doctor opened the paper parasol, twirled it in his drink. Come to a 51st century bar, get the same sort of proposition people had been making long before bars existed. The blonde was all confidence and control, certain that she could reel him in anytime she wanted.

The trouble was that he thought she might be right, at least tonight, here in this bar with his friends otherwise occupied and him trying to ignore any occupation he might have with them.

The woman's breath was warm on his skin. "You can sit there feeling sorry for yourself all night, or you could come with me and forget your friends are out enjoying themselves without you." A hand grazed the back of his neck, nails scraping lightly, a faint tickling that was unexpectedly tickling through other parts of him as well. "Do something for yourself," she said. "Just once. No strings. Promise."

Through the crowd of dancers, he caught a glimpse of Rose laughing and disappearing deeper among them. Whatever he thought he might have with her, with Jack; whatever they thought they might have with him, it wasn't on their minds tonight, or they'd never have let him mope on a barstool.

"No names," he said.

"No regrets," the woman replied.

* * *

She tapped her sequinned evening bag against a sensor outside one of the booths along the corridor, and a door snicked open, then shut behind them. It was a standard-issue sex booth: double bed with pillow notecard, looping gold script reading "sanitised for your protection"; intelligent walls in default dove-grey; well-stocked accessory vending machine in the corner.

The woman drew her finger across the featureless wall at waist height. "Command: ledge, this length, twenty centimetres depth. Centre six-centimetre hook three-quarters of a meter above. Go."

In response, a ledge and hook to her specifications extruded from the wall, rippling into place. The woman tested the strength of the ledge with her hand, nodded in satisfaction, and seated herself, hitching up the bottom of her dress to just below indecent levels, not that decency was likely to matter much soon.

"You've got this all planned out," he said.

She folded her arms round his neck, drew him in. "Some people might call me 'forward,'" she said, lips now tracing the hard edge of his jawline. "I don't think there's anything wrong with knowing what you want." A light nip on his pulse point. "And you know what you want now too, don't you?"

He did. The Doctor tilted his head to kiss her, tasting waxy lipstick and a faint note of citrus from the hypervodka she'd ordered. She was light and playful with her tongue, making him chase her for kisses, her laughter humming against his lips.

She pulled him closer, and with her back tight to the wall, there was nowhere for his hands to go but her cheeks, her neck, her hair twisting helices round his fingers. Another chuckle, low and throaty against his lips, and she drew his hands over her shoulders to push the spaghetti straps down over her biceps, gooseflesh prickling in his wake.

She shrugged out of the slumping dress, now a silvery pool at her waist; tugged at the front of the Doctor's trousers, a finger dancing at the edge of his waistband, rustling the coarse hair at the base of his stomach. He hissed in a breath.

"What's the hurry?" he asked.

"I'm not very good at waiting for things I want." A flick of her thumb, and the top of his jeans came unbuttoned.

The Doctor leaned down, took a nipple in his mouth, swirled his tongue over the peak until it hardened, traced ever-larger rings round it while the woman moaned, low and throaty. Tasting musky soap, floral vanilla perfume, the salt and acid of sweat on her breasts and at the quarter-moon curve of her waistline. She scraped her nails across his scalp, digging her thumbs into the muscles at the back of his neck.

She wasn't wearing knickers, which didn't come as much of a surprise. But save her increasingly rapid breathing, she was quiet as he knelt and kissed and nipped his way along her inner thighs, right up to the moment when his tongue swept an ellipse round her centre.

"_Yes,_" she hissed, shifting herself forwards to give the Doctor better access. "All I wanted from you was a good, hard fuck, but this will do – _oh_ …"

After that, she wasn't very quiet.

He didn't let her come. She was gasping for air, moaning so loudly now the Doctor wondered whether the booth's soundproofing would hold. Her heels were pressed deep into his back, her thighs taut around his head as she squeezed her legs together, desperate for climax. But she'd dragged him into this booth, she'd been in charge for long enough; time to turn the tables, see how far he could push her. She didn't seem to object.

He finally drew back with a flutter of his tongue against her clit and a kiss on her inner thigh. His cock was aching by now; he'd freed himself from his jeans, but the woman had said she'd wanted a good, hard fuck, and he planned to give it to her.

"You're not stopping there," she said, panting.

"Could do," he replied. "Why, you want something more?"

She smiled. "Oh, shut up and pass me my bag." She extracted a silvery pair of handcuffs – military grade, if he wasn't mistaken; she was obviously serious about her gear – snapped them across her wrists, and settled her arms above her head, supported by the hook.

"Now," she said, coy and breathy, "you said there might be something more?"

She locked her ankles at the small of his back and sighed with satisfaction as he entered her. Hemmed in by the woman's body, the Doctor had little room to thrust, but soon realised that shallow jerks of his hips might be for the best now anyway, if he wanted this to last more than a minute. It had been so long since he'd last done this – well, with someone else, anyway – and even without use of her arms, his current partner displayed extraordinary talent in skills as simple as artfully arching her back to rub her breasts across his chest; swiping her tongue against his bottom lip; grazing her mouth over his collarbone, warming his skin.

She ground against him in a circle, and glancing upwards, he saw that she'd grabbed onto the hook for leverage. Somehow, she'd got louder, too, heroically so, in a way he'd might have found suspicious if it weren't for the tense muscles and eyes squeezed shut that gave her away. The Doctor slid one hand up the woman's curves, palm resting over her breast, forefinger and thumb squeezing one pink nipple and drawing it into his mouth for a lick and a bite –

– and the woman came with wild, gasping cries, the jingling of her cuffs overhead as she lost her grip on the hook and dropped her arms round the Doctor's neck. "More," she begged him, "_more,_" and relaxed the grip of her legs so he could really start to move now. Smooth, full strokes, faster and so much more satisfying than before, tension vibrating through him, humming in his head.

The humming escalated into a buzz, spreading through his torso, his thighs, prickling along his cock like electricity. A little faster: yes, that was it, that was the rhythm he craved, almost unbearably close to the edge. Another hard thrust, then another, just a few more would be all it took – and then the woman screamed again, her chest heaving against him. Gentle pulses inside of her rippled across his cock, waves in time with his own motions.

His head burst with a dizzying pleasure, and the woman sighed softly in his ear.

It took a few moments to come back to himself. Besides, the woman was warm and comfortable, her kisses still sweet on his lips; no need to separate until they were both ready.

Eventually, she withdrew her arms and asked for her bag again. While the Doctor tucked himself away and sat on the bed to rest, the woman uncuffed herself, slid the shimmering dress back over her arms, freshened her lipstick.

"No regrets, then, sweetie?" she asked, leaning over him. He fell back on the bed, drew her down for a kiss.

"Definitely not." A different taste on her lips now, a high note above the wax, faintly bitter and alkaline.

The ceiling lamp fuzzed at the edges, diffracted into rotating prisms. He opened his mouth, sounds not even dying in his throat, just deciding that they had better places to be. Right now, that seemed to be playing a cheerful gavotte in his head.

The woman stroked his cheek, a sympathetic look on her face. "I'm so sorry, sweetie. But we did say 'no names,' too."

The last thing he remembered, right before the booth door snicked open and the prisms completely overtook him with their merry dance, was the woman's voice, finishing her sentence.

"At least for now."


	47. Eighty-One Hours in Leadworth (Amy/Rose)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Amy/Rose, set after The Big Bang but before A Christmas Carol. Strap-on optional.

Seventy-five hours since the Doctor had landed in Leadworth, where Amy and Rory said they needed to pick up certain articles of clothing vital to the enjoyment of their honeymoon.

Seventy-four hours and fifty-five minutes since the Doctor had said there was an emergency distress call, and that he'd be right back. 

Seventy-four hours and fifty-four minutes since Amy had nearly shoved her husband into a hedge in her rush to the TARDIS doors, swearing she'd strangle the Doctor with that woefully uncool bow tie if he left her behind again.

Seventy-five hours spent at her husband's flat, most of it staring out the window and glaring at the semicircular patch of lawn, its grass no longer flattened by a neat square footprint.

Seventy-seven hours until a blonde in a jeans jacket and arse-hugging skirt had drifted by the flat, a scowl on her face, and Amy had invited her in purely to alleviate boredom.

And seventy-nine and a half hours until Amy, her hand already halfway up Rose's skimpy skirt, had texted a photo of the girl to Rory with the message _See you when you're home from shift. Getting started without you._

* * *

Amy's honeymoon was days delayed, days she was supposed to be lying on a sun-baked Spanish beach when she wasn't in her hotel room, lying underneath, on top of, beside, and any number of other positions next to her husband. She'd spent too much of her lifetime waiting already, yet here she was, grounded again when she should have been flying with her boys, enjoying a honeymoon and all sorts of other delights in space.

But the hospital had needed emergency help, and Amy was on her own today, left behind to stomp about the flat in frustration and find some way to occupy herself.

So Rose, hot, sweet, compliant Rose, equally stranded by a friend she said vaguely was always late and overdue to collect her, was a gift. A gift who tasted of cheap lipstick and the pub's draught lager – not that it mattered, the way she could use that tongue, flicking softly across Amy's lips, dipping inside when they kissed, slippery and warm, and Amy knew how good Rose would be with that tongue elsewhere. Fingers swept across Amy's chest, palm settling on a breast and thumb gently flicking at her nipple, and Amy gripped Rose's sides, rucking up her jumper and reaching for Rose's bra clasp. She popped the eye-hooks with a quick fold of cloth and twist of her fingers; slid one hand to Rose's chest, the other into her hair, a little dry and brittle, but still comfortable and real against her palm. She wasn't Rory, but she didn't need to be. She needed to be here, now, for Amy and that ferocious ache for something new.

Rose reclined on the couch, dragging Amy down with her, finger pressure at the back of her neck. Rose's lips pressing kisses to Amy's throat, the beating pulse at her jawline. A shiver when Rose's tongue traced the edge of Amy's ear, sucking in the lobe; a soft bite that echoed sharply between Amy's legs.

Which, speaking of, were tangled with Rose's on the couch, Rose squirming against Amy's thigh, and Amy obligingly flexed her muscles, pushing her leg deeper between Rose's, listening for the other woman's moans and sighs. Rose's arse-hugging skirt wasn't even covering that anymore, now simply crinkled at the top of her thighs from the angle and friction; all the easier for Amy to dig the heel of her hand between Rose's legs, pressing into navy-blue tights and polka-dot knickers, and rubbing, hard, crudely, as Rose groaned and shuddered.

"Take those off," Amy said. "I want to fuck you." And while Rose rolled her tights and underwear into a crumpled ball, Amy stripped herself and fumbled in the side table's drawer, feeling around for the right toy. Not the squat, rubber torpedo; not the silvertone bullet – ah, there it was, her favourite, bulbous at one end of the vee for her; thick and tapered at the other end for Rory. She slid a finger inside herself with ease, withdrew it, and breathing slowly, replaced it with her half of the dildo.

Rose was spread open before her, languidly fingering herself while she watched Amy settle the dildo into place, only removing her hand once Amy teased the silicone cock along Rose's slit and circled the tip round her clit. Rose moaned and pushed the dildo down, guiding it inside, while Amy shifted Rose's leg, improving the angle. So tricky, not having a cock of one's own to practice the motions, but Amy'd got used to it with Rory, and with the other girls they'd played with. Squeeze her inner muscles tight; a few short thrusts to make sure the dildo was well-placed within both of them; then longer, more powerful strokes that left Rose gasping and Amy alight with the increasing pressure of the bulb end on her G-spot.

She snaked her tongue round one of Rose's nipples, licking, biting softly first with lips and then a graze of her teeth; Rose arching to meet her, Rose's hands gripping Amy's arse, grinding herself against Amy. She couldn't thrust as deeply like this, but it didn't matter when slow rotations of her hips seemed to do the job just as well, based on Rose's increasingly frantic cries. And besides, it was the best way to reach Rose's plush lips, that silky tongue sweeping the inside of Amy's mouth, Rose's moans vibrating through them both.

Amy swept bleached hair from Rose's cheeks, caressed the other woman's neck, let herself drift along in sensation while Rose's body tensed beneath her. The warm velvet of Rose's lips; the coarseness of her hair; the tang of sweat on her skin; the irresistible heat where they joined together; the urgent pressure of the dildo as Amy rocked and thrust.

There was no questioning when Rose came. She drew her head back, eyes fluttering shut; short, sharp cries as her legs jittered next to Amy's, a sigh when her hands fell limp to her sides. Amy kissed the full curve of Rose's throat, nipping lightly down to the hollow at its base, the rapid beat of Rose's pulse against her tongue.

"God," Rose said between breaths, "that's a hell of a way to spend the afternoon."

Amy squeezed the dildo tightly inside herself, relaxed, squeezed again. Not quite enough to relieve the tension, but it was a start. She wriggled in place atop Rose, cupped the other woman's breast, caressing her nipple with a thumb. "Plenty of afternoon left," she said. "And I can keep going for a while."

"Mmm, I'll just bet," said Rose, drawing Amy down for another leisurely kiss. "But my friend might be back soon, and there's something I want to do before I go."

"And what's that?"

Rose pushed herself up on one elbow, pushing Amy away at the same time, all the way back until they'd swapped positions. Her tongue traced a switchback across Amy's chest, slow spirals over her breasts, zigzagging kisses down her belly until she reached the slick end of the dildo. She twisted it gently, waiting for Amy to let go, and dropped it on the floor.

"That's better," she murmured, and continued plotting a trail down Amy's body, meandering across and over her thighs, licking at the sweat between them until she reached Amy's centre. She spread her wide with her fingers, dropped her mouth between Amy's legs, and blew a cool stream of air along Amy's slit.

Amy's eyes flew open. "Holy _mother of –_"

She heard giggling from somewhere lower on her body, and then Rose's tongue fluttered delicately across Amy's clit, and Amy lost track of everything else but the sweet tension inside herself.

Two fingers curled inside her, stroking lightly where the dildo had begun its work, then a little harder as Rose's tongue started to bear down on her. Stroke after stroke outside of her, each one drawing her closer to the edge; twinned with strokes within her until she felt full, swollen, ready to burst free.

She'd already been close before, just from the dildo pounding against her clit while she'd fucked Rose, and Rose, clever, terrible Rose, seemed to know exactly the right pace to keep Amy off-balance, not quite tipping over, not even as desperately as she wanted to. When Amy tried to grind herself harder into Rose's face, the other woman dialled back the pressure, retreating to the light, teasing flicks she'd started with. Amy didn't beg in bed, not with anyone, but if Rose kept this up, it wouldn't be more than a minute or two before she'd be sobbing for Rose to do it, just _do it already,_ and she'd be _happy_ to beg for it.

But at last, Rose stopped holding back, driving in deep with her fingers, lapping at Amy with swift but steady pressure until the pleasure broke over her in waves and Amy gasped hard for air, suddenly dizzy and faint. Aftershocks rumbled through her body as Rose licked her more gently and inch by inch, carefully removed her fingers.

"Yeah," said Rose. "So, that was what I wanted to do." 

She sucked in her fingers, a satisfied grin on her face, and Amy finally, blessedly, peacefully passed out.

* * *

She woke a few minutes later at the click of the door lock catching. "Rose?" she called. "Rory?"

Still dazed, she stumbled to the window and loosely wrapped the curtain round her body. Rose was outside on the walk, reading something on her mobile and smiling.

The window latch stuck. It always did, no matter how many times Rory fixed it, leaving Amy forced to pound on the windowpane to catch Rose's attention. She looked up at Amy, still smiling, that little pink tongue of hers licking her lips, and blew Amy a kiss. Then she was off down the road at a jog, heading for her friend, Amy figured, wherever he was.

She let loose the drapes, settled back under a knit afghan on the couch for a nap. There was a low wheeze in the distance that must have been the trees rustling, she thought, but she dreamt of a blue box anyway: somewhere in time and space, whirling its way back to her soon. Soon.


	48. Adventures With Rose Tyler (11/Rose)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt at eleventy_kink: "I'd kill for a better goodbye to Rose. Cue 11 having dirty sexy kinky sex with Rose." Includes DP.

River's gone now, wherever it is she goes when she's not gallivanting about with him or sequestered in Stormcage. And the Ponds – well, best not to think of the Ponds, other than to think about how much they love each other, and how neither had let go of the other, not even if it meant a permanent stay somewhere long before they were born. No, thinking about that only led to moping, which would lead to wallowing, which would lead to further wallowing in how he hadn't been this mopey and wallowy since his last incarnation.

The Doctor sighed one long, deep, not-quite-wallowy-yet sigh, and the TARDIS sighed with him as she settled down on solid ground. Surely there'd be adventure on the other side of her doors. There always was. The Doctor straightened his bow tie, strode manfully down the stairs, threw the front door wide open, and ran smack into Rose Tyler.

"Oof," she said, which wasn't quite what he'd expected her to say in the unlikely circumstances they ever met again. On the other hand, none of those fantasies had ever involved nearly knocking the wind out of her, at least not like this.

"Rose? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, sure, as long as someone got the plate off that lorry … oh, no. I'm too late. You've changed again, haven't you?"

"Yes. Yes, I did. Not much choice at the time, I'm afraid. But you! You're here! And you haven't changed one bit! Same yellow hair, same smile, same … Rose. Except …" He reached for her left hand and the slim gold band round her finger. "Well. This is new."

"Don't tell me you're surprised."

"Not surprised," he said, drawing her in for a hug. "Happy. Really, really happy for you. Congratulations, Rose. And congratulations to myself, I suppose." He pulled back, peered at her more closely. Tiny lines at the edges of her eyes foundation couldn't quite hide; a patch of hair roots at her temple that was silvery, not brown. "How long has it been? And how did you get here, anyway?"

"A few years," she said, shrugging. "The Doctor built this little dimension hopper. Rough ride, but it does the trick."

"And you found me … oh, of course. Time Lord. He sensed I was going to be here."

"Something like that," Rose said. "That wasn't the important bit of our conversation." 

She was moving closer now, close enough that he took a step back inside the ship. Her index finger traced the line of his suit jacket, skimming a fingertip down his chest, and there was a determined gleam in her eye he'd usually seen reserved for that very last pink hoodie on discount.

"What … what was the important bit of that conversation, Rose?" He took another step backwards.

"That would be the bit where the Doctor told me you and I should say goodbye properly." Her voice had gone low and husky in that same way River's voice went when – well, best not to think of her now, probably. 

"So basically," Rose continued needlessly, "I'm here to shag you rotten."

Hands grabbed at his braces and yanked him downwards, his mouth quite literally crashing into hers, but this time, Rose didn't seem to mind the violent contact. In fact, based on the way her tongue was lightly flicking at his lips, she seemed very interested in pursuing further contact, though he supposed her previous comment about shagging him rotten was also a vital clue: that, and the way her waist pressed against him, grinding in slow circles, and the hand that had rather rapidly slipped from his chest down to his arse and seemed to be considering moving much closer to the front of his body. He wasn't always the quickest on the uptake when a woman (or man, or whatever amorous being happened to be handy) started making advances on him, but even he had to admit that Rose's hand on his crotch would be a fairly unambiguous signal.

This wasn't the sort of adventure he'd had in mind when he'd thrown open those doors, but it would do. He briefly contemplated, as he let Rose's tongue wander pleasantly along his own, whether River would be jealous, and decided that if anything, she'd be upset she wasn't here to participate. Maybe next time, if the opportunity arose.

Anyway, _something_ was arising, or at least beginning to wake and realise that a beautiful woman was nearby and actively paying attention to other parts of his body, and the Doctor found himself pressing into Rose's touch, wishing she'd give that unambiguous signal, though at this point, he felt pretty certain he knew what was going to happen next. He drew his hand up her side, thumb tracing the curve of her breast, the jut of her nipple through that stretched-tight space-age fabric she was apparently calling a shirt; whatever it was, it allowed his hand to slide smoothly over her chest, down to the hem, and straight under without a snag.

"Rose," he murmured, though that required detangling himself from her tongue. "Rose. There's a bedroom –"

She stared up at him, those hazel eyes still as deep and bright as he remembered, the smile on her face still as mischievously seductive. "Nah," she said, and pushed him up against the wall. "We'll make do."

Oh. Oh. _There_ was that unambiguous signal, followed rapidly by Rose shoving his trousers and pants into a crumple at his ankles, followed just as rapidly by Rose re-entangling her tongue with part of him and _oh oh oh_ this was _definitely_ going to be an adventure.

She had him halfway in her mouth in seconds, nearly all the way in seconds later, slow, supple ripples of her tongue along the base as she drew herself off him, then back on again. He felt a full-body whimper coming on.

Rose was diligent; he had to give her that. Then again, she'd always been persistent about getting what she wanted, and if he happened to be what she wanted right now, so much the better. She slid him further in – how was that even _possible?_ – and after dedicated and thorough massage with her lips, slid him back out, leaving just the tip deliciously trapped inside her mouth while a finger teased curlicues along his inner thighs.

And then one hand was rubbing his balls and another was wrapped around his cock and her mouth kept moving, barely releasing him, diving back on with a hum of satisfaction. He was quivering, palms sweaty against the TARDIS walls, body vibrating with anticipation. It would be rude, surely, not to warn Rose how close he was, even if that meant she'd take that stunning little mouth of hers away, and in between panting breaths he managed to reach for her, gently push her backwards.

He'd barely slipped out of her mouth when she looked up at him, cocked an eyebrow, dove back in for a set of fluttering swirls, then withdrew and pumped him twice with her hand. The Doctor thrust forward with a groan, spattering the arm of Rose's jacket.

"Oh, oh dear, I'm so sorry, let me …" He dug into his pocket for a handkerchief, which Rose dabbed on the mess he'd left. 

"Don't worry. It's pleather."

"Still," he said, the roundabout in his head finally starting to slow its whirl, "that was … um … very enjoyable, yes, very, very enjoyable, absolutely should do that again sometime very, very soon, as soon as I'm physically capable, that is – but in the meantime – in the meantime, Rose: there's you."

"Yeah," she said, and tugged on his shirttails until he joined her on the floor. "What are we going to do about me?" 

She unzipped her boots, tossing them aside along with her jacket, shirt, and goodness, everything else she'd been wearing. Convenient, really, saving him the time of ripping it all off her himself. He shed his remaining clothes as well in the name of naked solidarity.

"I must admit," he said, "this presents interesting possibilities."

"Try presenting this" – she took his hand, sucked on his index and forefinger, and damned if that didn't cause a shiver even if he wasn't yet ready for another go – "right about here." She laid his hand carefully between her legs, and honestly, who was he not to take a hint? "Ah," she sighed as his palm pressed into her, "that's a nice start."

She was warm and slick and she wriggled so pleasingly as he stroked her, gasping when he increased the pressure, squeaking when he leaned in, sucked her nipple between his teeth, and bit down gently. Could he maybe – yes, that was it, the flutter of his tongue on her sweet little nipple, the same flutter she'd applied to his cock only minutes ago; his two fingers plunging inside her, curving, slipping back out, repeating. Rose arched her back, groaning in his ear, the swell of her breast brushing his face, and if that wasn't incentive enough to keep going, Rose's increasingly rapid moans certainly were.

She came quickly, far more quickly than he'd been expecting; why, there was only the one nipple he'd lavished attention on, and the other one as yet terra incognita and likely very much in need of exploration. Instead, Rose lay beneath him, red-faced and panting, shivering when he moved his fingers against her slowly once more. "Mmm, that's so nice." She exhaled, closed her eyes, lay back with a faint smile on her face as he continued. "But … can we try something else?"

"Whatever you like."

Rose rolled onto her front and propped herself up on her elbows so her bottom, as pert and perky as he remembered, wiggled in his face. "You have the sonic?" she asked.

"Of course. But …"

"Good. Can't believe I forgot to bring the sonic buttplug." She winked at him.

"The sonic _what?_"

"Just something the Doctor whipped up. You really are a clever man, you know?" Rose dragged her jacket towards her, rummaged in the pocket, and tossed a tiny packet over her shoulder to the Doctor. "Here. We'll probably need that." 

She paused a moment, probably waiting for his jaw to shift back into position after having dropped half a foot, then wiggled her arse again. Damn. It really was a very fetching arse, and plainly in need of some sonicking.

Clearly, he was the man for the job. "Right, then," he said, ripping open the packet with his teeth, "let's see what we can do about that missing sonic buttplug."

Rose sucked in a breath and shivered as the lube dripped down the crack of her bottom. "You could have warmed it, you know?"

"Sorry," he said. "A bit distracted by my former companion asking me to put my sonic screwdriver up her bum."

Rose laughed, and what a sweet sound it was, one he hadn't heard from her in what felt like years, and probably was from both their perspectives. And here she was at long last, naked with him like she'd never been before, and as he carefully inched the sonic inside her, urging her to breathe deeply, he realised he truly had made the right choice, leaving her with a version of him who could love her properly, the way she needed.

Also, that he was deeply jealous his other self had found out what a demon Rose Tyler was in bed well before he did.

He switched on the sonic, and Rose gasped, her voice rising into a high-pitched moan. "Oh. _Oh God._ It's so strong."

"I can turn it down –"

"Don't you _dare._" She exhaled quickly, shook her head. "Have to talk to my Doctor about adjusting ours."

The Doctor caressed Rose's bottom, kneading her gently with his palms, thumbs trailing to her inner thigh. Tentatively, he dragged one thumb across her labia, then again as Rose's breath hitched and she gasped once more. Light touches, thumb now circling Rose's clit, barely any pressure at all; just enough to keep those low murmurs of pleasure going. She was slick beneath his fingertips, slicker still when he pushed his other thumb inside her, and Rose drove back against him, encouraging him to press deeper.

Instead, he withdrew his hand, slid it up and down his cock instead; thoroughly, from tip to root and back again, remembering Rose's naughty little tongue wrapped round him and considering whether he could slip inside her from this angle, with the sonic set to poke him in the stomach every time he moved.

Rose tilted her head towards him. "What are you … oh. If you're going to have a wank, you could at least let me watch."

"Actually, I was rather hoping we could, you know …"

"What?" Damn it, there was that seductive little smile of hers again. As if she needed him to spell this out, especially after what they'd been up to.

He crawled beside her and flopped on his back, noting with satisfaction how her eyes immediately dropped to his waist. "You. Me. This," he said, gesturing to his cock. "Ideally, inside you."

"Ideally." She was outright stifling laughter now, which might have been insulting under different circumstances, but at this point, virtually every part of him – or at least, one key part – was concentrating on Rose's cunt, or her mouth, or her hand, oh yes, just like that, her fingers dancing along him, curling round, stroking leisurely. 

"Let's see what we can do about that," she said.

She repositioned herself and slowly guided him in, sinking down upon him, and the sudden shock of the sonic vibrating on his balls and cock jolted up his spine. Within Rose, cock pressed tight in her cunt by the additional pressure of the sonic, the sensation was a subtle buzz, a thousand tiny fingertips massaging him; but outside, where the sonic's handle nudged him every time Rose rocked forwards, it was a burst of lightning. He bucked his hips into her as she moved, the tidal wave of the sonic pushing him onwards.

Rose leaned down, and he met her with a kiss, holding her tightly in place so he could only feel the sonic's power within her. If she could stay with him longer, she'd have told him so, and that meant this might be it, his last moments with her: his Rose, the Rose he'd loved enough to let her keep part of him, the Rose he still loved enough to let her take part of him now. 

He always loved and remembered them, every single one of them, but this one had burnt herself onto his hearts from the moment he'd laid eyes on her. If he were going to have only one more memory of her, it might as well be of her naked and lost in the pleasure he gave her.

She pulled back then, eyes closed as he ran his hands across her breasts, and she tilted her body backwards just enough for the sonic to press hard against his balls. The vibrations pulsed all along his groin, pressure surging with him. He grasped Rose's hips to hold her in place, thrust up and up again, grinding his pelvis against her, his breathing hard and fast; and Rose, gasping for air herself, wedged the tip of her index finger between them, rocking into each thrust.

Her voice rose like a siren as she shuddered to a halt above him, hands and thighs clasping him tightly, and she dropped her head and gulped noisily for air. The sonic hummed on his balls and his cock, waves swelling inside him like a summer storm.

Rose lifted her head and looked at him. She ran a thumb tenderly across his cheek. And the Doctor arched his back, and thrust once more, and came unforgettably hard.

* * *

He hadn't expected her to stay long afterwards, and after some quiet cuddling and a shower (which admittedly had included a brief but effective introduction of the Doctor's tongue to Rose's nethers), Rose did indeed say goodbye in a more traditional manner, hugging him and making him promise he'd have as good a life as she was.

"I am," he said, breathing in the scent of her hair one last time. "Especially today."


	49. Ancient History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian/Barbara/Martha, threesome set during the stuck-in-1969 section of "Blink."

A shared past, as always, was what brought the Doctor's companions together.

It started with a compliment on a gold bracelet snaking round the wrist of a customer at the stationery store. "Oh, this old thing," said the bracelet's owner, a brunette dressed too fashionably for "housewife" and too conservatively for "aging model," so Martha settled on "schoolteacher" as the most likely option. "I got it in Rome a few years ago. It was a gift from the emp–" The woman paused, swallowed a word. "It was a gift."

"Yes," echoed her husband, older, equally warm-voiced, a cardigan layered below a grey tweed jacket, and a whiff of formaldehyde on his fingers. Science teacher, possibly; perhaps the couple had even met at the same school. "I bought that for you, remember? At that jewelry shop near the Colosseum?"

"Of course, Ian." The woman smiled faintly, the edges of her eyes crinkling. "How could I forget? In any case," she said, tapping Martha's arm, "it's very kind of you to notice."

"I only noticed because the style is so unique – from around 50 AD, yeah? I saw – I mean, I've seen others like them, but it's been a little while," Martha said. No need for this woman to know that Claudius turned out not to look a thing like Sir Derek Jacobi, or that Martha owned a similar bracelet herself, albeit one trapped forty years in the future.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "As a matter of fact, it is. A replica of that period's design. How do you know so much about antique jewelry?"

"I'm a bit of a history buff, I suppose," Martha replied.

"Are you, now?" said Ian. "Barbara, I think we've made a new friend."

*

Martha didn't usually handle deliveries, but any excuse to see this couple and satisfy her suspicions was a good one. The Chestertons, or so the delivery slip said, had a sunny, first-floor flat done up in shades of mustard and turquoise, and hallways lined with bookshelves of science fiction and history, including an entire shelf about the French Revolution. Facing a neat fireplace with a mantel full of photos of the couple posing in front of Nelson's Column and oddly, what looked like a scrapyard, there was a well-worn sofa and a couple of armchairs; the centre of the home, where Ian and Barbara must spend all their time curled up together reading.

"Two reams of onionskin, typewriter ribbons, and correction fluid," Martha said, handing several wrapped parcels off to Ian. "That's a lot of correspondence."

"Oh, we're working on a book," said Ian. "A fictional travelogue of sorts. Science fiction, you know, people and time machines and _whoosh!_ Off into the future."

"And the past," Barbara added.

"Time machines," said Martha. "How interesting."

"We thought you might want to hear more," Ian said. "Won't you come in? Barbara, would you put the kettle on?"

"You don't need to do that. I should probably get home."

"There's always time for a cup of tea," said Barbara. "Now, have a seat. I have a feeling we've a lot of things to discuss."

*

Martha was only a few sips into her tea when Ian asked her, "So, how do you know the Doctor?"

"Ian!" Barbara cried. "I thought we agreed to be subtle!"

"What's the point, Barbara? Look at her. She recognised the bracelet, you said you hadn't seen any shoes like hers since the 21st century, she was obviously trying not to let on that she knew what I was up to with the manuscript ..."

Barbara sighed. "I suppose if you're here, Martha, you're stranded, aren't you? He's gone off and left you."

"I cannot believe I'm having this conversation." Martha settled the teacup on her lap, where it rattled in her hands. "I have no idea what you two are on about, but you're barking."

"We're not," Barbara said, "and you know we're not. You're just not willing to admit it for some reason."

"A police box. An ordinary blue police box," Ian said. "When was the last time you walked by one of those without stopping, Martha, just for a moment? Hoping that maybe you could hear it hum? Or that it'd feel warm under your fingertips even on a snowy day? It was a good year for me and Barbara before we looked at one and just saw a box, nothing more. But you're not there yet, are you, Martha?"

Martha swirled her teacup, watched the liquid spiral in a tiny whirlpool. "The TARDIS isn't here," she said. "We're trying to get her back, me and the Doctor. Well, he's working on getting her back; I'm just paying for our flat and keeping his sorry skinny arse in tea and sandwiches. Pardon me."

"Ha!" cried Ian. "I knew it. How is the old bugger these days? Irascible as ever?"

"He's not happy we're stuck here, that's for sure. But how do you know him?"

"Martha, my dear," Barbara said, a hand on Martha's knee, "we're going to need a lot more tea for that story."

*

There was another kettle of tea, and later, a roast chicken and potatoes, a bottle and a half of inexpensive French Chablis, and a long tale of kidnapping, adventure, and an inexorable drift from friendship to love. Ian and Barbara weren't the only ones with the latter story, although Martha's version was less inexorable than instantaneous, and far more frustrating.

But still later, Barbara again placed her hand on Martha's knee, and this time she slowly slid it high inside Martha's thigh. Another inexorable drift, and a welcome one.

*

"I learned this in the pleasure palace on Marinus," Barbara said, her fingers curling inside Martha while her tongue circled one of Martha's nipples; sweet, fluttering licks like sparks on her skin.

Martha groaned, stretched, legs taut. Her body buzzed, vibrating with anticipation. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ian kneeling beside her, naked, stroking himself.

"Come over here, Ian," Martha said. His lips and tongue were as soft as Barbara's. Martha's hand reached down to cover Ian's, moving in time with him, her thumb sliding along the shaft to feel it harden beneath them both.

Barbara's fingers, so steady inside Martha; the heel of her palm pressing rhythmically against Martha's clit; Martha, trying to keep pace with Ian while her body spiralled away from her. Her hand faltered as Barbara's mouth sealed over her breast.

"Relax, Martha," said Ian. "Just relax." 

Martha nodded and dropped her hand, and suddenly felt swift fingers where Barbara's palm had been. The barely stifled whimper in her throat became a sharp cry. Vibrations through every part of her now; a velvet fuzziness in her head and between her legs. Martha exhaled, slow and satisfied, as Barbara removed her fingers and gave her a lingering kiss.

"It's nice to see that trick still works," Barbara said. "I don't get to practise it as often as I'd like."

"You can practise on me as long as I'm here," Martha replied. "But now …" She drew Barbara's head down for another kiss, traced her inner thigh with her fingertips, smiled as Barbara sighed into her mouth. How had that motion gone again? Two fingers inside, a zigzag wriggle down, a strong upward stroke.

"Almost," Barbara gasped. "A bit harder … faster …"

Practice made perfect, of course. And there was plenty of time to achieve perfection.

*

Afterwards, they lay in an untidy knot on the bed, legs and arms tangled round each other, unwilling to let go yet.

"I should have called the Doctor hours ago to let him know I'd be late," Martha said, but Barbara's breast was warm and comfortable, and her heart thumped softly in Martha's ear, and Martha curled into her a little more tightly.

"Oh, he'll be all right," Barbara said. "He always is. He's probably busy working on that detector of his anyway. I'll bet he hasn't even noticed you're gone."

"You're probably right. In fact, you have no idea how probably right you are."

"If you're worried, go ahead and ring him," Ian said. "I can always drive you home if you like." A hand glided along Martha's curves, came to rest at the swell of her hips. "Or you could just tell him you're held up at work. Inventory, let's say. You'll be back in the morning."

Barbara tilted her head to face her husband. "Ian Chesterton, you old liar."

"Come on, Barbara, after all the times he lied to us? All the times he's probably lied to Martha?"

"Like I said." Martha sighed. "You have no idea."

"I didn't say we shouldn't do it," said Barbara, and Martha felt another hand lock with Ian's at her hips. "Besides, what he doesn't know won't hurt him."

"He is definitely not going to know about this," Martha said. "But I will. I'm not going to forget a single minute."

She raised her head, leaned over to touch her lips to Ian's, then Barbara's. And the only thing she forgot was her phone call to the Doctor.


	50. At the Crown and Country Inn (Eight/Romana II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Doctor/Romana, creaky motel room bed.

Romana found the Doctor on Earth, in London. It was roughly where she’d expected to find him – after all, he never could resist that little blue planet, or its little green country blessed with decent tea and cursed with more alien invasions than anyone should have to suffer – but the two-story dockyard motel revitalisation had somehow left behind was a shabbier bolt-hole than usual. Peeling mint paint, the scent of stale tobacco and burnt coffee physically lingering in the humid air, a cracked window overlooking a car park of dinged and rusted automotive carcasses. And in the corner, obscuring a watercolour landscape clearly courtesy the local pound shop, stood a tall blue box.

“She keeps trying to take me back to Gallifrey,” the Doctor muttered. His hair, near shoulder-length curls when Romana had last seen him, was now shaggily trimmed at the sides, as if he’d done it himself without looking in the mirror – or, knowing his sartorial skills, perhaps he had been. 

“She’s locked me out, because she knows I don’t want to fight,” he continued. “And you know that too, Romana, or you wouldn’t be here.”

Romana knelt beside him on the slim mattress, knees sinking nearly to the bed frame with a multi-tonal creak. How long had he been here? As long as it took for him to realise he couldn’t convince the TARDIS to do anything other than take him to the battlefield, or make him the warrior his people needed him to be, she supposed. He’d always been an expert at … well, most things, but especially evading responsibility, a skill he’d tried to pass along to her but which she, in her characteristically direct way, had deliberately failed to acquire.

Thus she found herself in this pathetic motel, in a room smaller than the Citadel’s Presidential dressing-chamber, ready to make an equally pathetic plea for help if she must, because the Daleks drew closer to Gallifrey every day.

“You’re right,” she said. “I wouldn’t be here unless Gallifrey needed you.”

“Gallifrey has its share of generals and soldiers. It doesn’t need another one.”

“They’re Time Lords, not tacticians. They can see into the future, but they haven’t the imagination to get there. You do.”

“That’s my curse, I suppose. It drove me off Gallifrey in the first place, and now it’s what you need to survive.” A bitter laugh. “You and Leela are easily as good as I am. Why can’t you do this?”

“If the war were just on Gallifrey, or even confined to a single galaxy, we could. But it’s not, and we need help. We need _your_ help.”

“What if I don’t want to help, Romana? What if I want to keep as far clear of this as possible?” Those blue eyes, pale as the molecules scattering light in Earth’s sky; the Doctor’s hand dropping to Romana’s knee, his fingers brushing her silk trousers. “What if you come with me?”

Her skin sparked where he touched her, warmth spreading from his fingertips to settle between Romana’s legs. She’d missed him on Gallifrey for so many reasons, but his regular appearance in her bed was one of them.

“I can’t leave,” she said, and covered his hand with her own, weaving her fingers through his. “You have no idea how far the Council has gone. There’s a faction trying to resurrect Rassilon.”

“But that’s ludicrous! He was a monster! I should know; most of me’s played the Game of Rassilon.”

“Come make your case to the Council, then. Perhaps you can finally convince them to see reason; they’ve stopped listening to me.”

“I’m sorry, Romana.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best. When they finally depose me, they’ll see for themselves what sort of a job it is.”

A crooked smile. “Now you see why I ran away from it so often.”

“Are you certain you won’t come back?”

“Yes,” he said. “For now, anyway.” His fingers slipped closer to Romana’s inner thigh. “But perhaps you’d consider staying here a little longer?”

* * *

Romana’s red silk tunic and trousers clung to her in the muggy air, and she welcomed the chance to remove them even if there hadn’t been another reason to do so. She stretched beside the Doctor, the bedsprings creaking an outline of her body; 119 coils, if she was counting correctly, each one of them protesting under even her minimal weight. How the Doctor slept on this, she had no idea, but then again, he’d never been much of a sleeper.

“This,” he murmured, “this is one thing I’ve missed about Gallifrey. It’s almost enough to convince me to come back.” His lips trailed across Romana’s collarbone, along the curve of her neck, pausing at her jawline. Hovering over her skin, a frustrating absence of touch prickling from Romana’s cheeks to well further down her body. 

“Do you really think you’re so important that the Lord President of Gallifrey would fly to a backwater planet and debase herself by literally seducing you into supporting the war effort?” she said.

“You’re here.” His mouth finally covering hers, tongue slipping past her lips, fingers sifting through her hair. “And you’re in my bed. And you said Gallifrey needed me. What sort of conclusion do you expect me to draw?”

“You invited me into the bed, not the other way round,” Romana said. Her nails scraped the Doctor’s chest, lingered at his hipbone, drifting back and forth until she felt him shift against her, rubbing himself along her thigh. “So really, you simply took advantage of an opportunity, you scoundrel.”

“A scoundrel, eh? I’d be insulted if it weren’t true.” Another lingering kiss, his taste so familiar no matter what body he wore. “Besides,” he added, “I think _you’d_ be insulted if I’d really expected this before I’d agree to help.”

“True.” She took his hand, drew it to her breast, sighed as he cupped it with his palm. She genuinely hadn’t come to Earth intending to sleep with him, but neither would she turn down the opportunity, especially since who knew whether it would come around again. So many years they’d spent as friends and lovers who complemented one another no matter how often they disagreed on the right course of action. The Doctor always was good at simply assuming he was right and ignoring anyone, especially those in charge, who stood in the way; and Romana, though she occasionally failed to admit it, had learned to take much the same tack.

This was only a problem when _she_ was the one in power, and the Doctor the one who’d decided she was in the way.

His hand drifted past her curves to her centre, and Romana arched her back and gasped when he touched her. The rusty bed coils – thirty-nine of them, or possibly forty – squeaked at the motion. 

“But will you?” she said. “Will you come back?” He’d kept rubbing against her thigh, and when she reached for him, he let loose a breath and leaned into her touch.

He closed his eyes and rolled on top of her, and Romana groaned when he slipped inside her body.

The bedsprings set the rhythm, each thrust ratcheting another notch, the streakily stained headboard banging against the wall. It would only be a matter of time before the neighbour, whoever they were – because there had to be a neighbour, a place as cheap as this – began to complain.

But that hadn’t happened yet, and until it did, Romana was going to concentrate fully on the Doctor: the wiry muscles in his back; the soft kisses and licks he lavished on Romana’s calf, draped across his shoulder; the tension where his body met hers, a low simmer now but rapidly increasing with each thrust. She refused to believe this would be their last time together, no matter whether he agreed to help Gallifrey, now or later. It frankly seemed almost impossible that there had been a time before she knew him, a time when she’d had to learn that her objectively stunning marks meant not just little to him, but little to the universe, and paled in comparison to a quick mind willing to make what looked like the most ridiculous leaps of faith. It still rankled her, albeit as a wry admission that her younger self had had so much to learn; the sort of thing one could only appreciate as a woman of a hundred years older.

And as that woman of a hundred years beyond her first meeting with the Doctor, she could likewise fully appreciate that a man of so many years beyond _that_ knew how to twist his hips just _so_; had long since learned to stroke the back of Romana’s neck with a single finger as she drew close to the end; and most important, Romana knew that she would love him no matter whether he convinced himself he should be part of this awful war.

The springs switched to a higher register as the Doctor’s pace grew faster and more ragged, and the headboard thumped against the wall in time with the bed. Right on cue, there was a thumping on the wall and a muted “Oi! Keep it down!” Romana’s simmering nerves bubbled throughout her body now, and the Doctor’s eyes were squeezed shut, and her raised leg was quite honestly getting a bit sore, and the springs, always the springs, prickled at her back and creaked in parallel with the people above them –

– and if she had one last memory of him, if this were truly the last, no matter how much she’d pretend it couldn’t possibly be, it would be of him with those sea-blue eyes suddenly open and gazing down at her, and of her name escaping on his breath as he came and shuddered to a halt within her.

* * *

Noisy springs and irked neighbours aside, it was some time yet before they left the room. They were Time Lords, after all, and human notions of how long one should stay in bed with one’s lover were utterly irrelevant.

Also, there were plenty of snacks in the TARDIS.

* * *

When Romana had finally cleaned herself and dressed, she leant against the TARDIS and listened to what the old girl had to say. It had been months since they’d last spoken, not that one could ever call a conversation with the TARDIS a true “conversation” as such, but they did at least understand one another as much as it was possible for a Time Lord and a sentient, dimensionally transcendental being to do so.

“She’ll take you where you need to go,” Romana said. “Although I honestly don’t know if that’s Gallifrey.”

“It will be, I suspect,” the Doctor said. “Eventually.”

“Find me when she does.”

“Of course,” he said. “I can’t imagine doing anything else.”


End file.
